


5 Times Peter & Stiles Are a Cliche and the 1 Time They Are Not

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Age Difference, Angst with a Happy Ending, Astral Projection, Breaking and Entering, Depression, Dissociation, Dom Drop, Drinking, Dubious Consent, Feminization, Happy Ending, Humiliation, Humiliation kink, Invisibility, Loneliness, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Podfic Welcome, Size Difference, Stalking, Top Drop, Underage - Freeform, Underage Drinking, abusive behaviour, britishism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3874081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark, sometimes violent, porn, masquerading as an intriguing plot. </p><p>Following the tract of 5 cliches of classic Steter, Peter and Stiles dance around each other unsure what they want from themselves never lone each other. Some how they move from the point of predator and prey to something more like courting, although, it'd be difficult to tell how or when.</p><p>(Will be dark, but also at times nice, and the aim will be a happy ending)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The big bad wolf cliché

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neoladyapollonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoladyapollonia/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note Added September 2016:** So this was the first fic I wrote for Teen Wolf, and in many ways it really shows how out of practice I was in my writing. My more recent fics truly surpass the quality written here, although in some ways there's an interesting quality to this fic in its raw state. I'm going to try to finish this fic - as there's only two chapters left - and perhaps come back to the whole thing again later and do an overhaul of some of the writing. Either way, thank you to everyone who first read this fic, and if you're just finding it now: good luck! It's a bit rough, but I'm sure there's a few gems in it somewhere.
> 
> Warnings (spoilers) at the end.

“The big bad wolf cliché” (aka. Psycho Peter corners Stiles in the woods)

 

So, prom night went a little like this.

“I’m feeling kind tonight, so I’m considering offering you the bite instead of just ripping out your throat for trying to get in my way.”

Stiles swallowed reflexively, trying to will himself to not take a step backward at Peter’s words. ‘Don’t run away from dogs’ – that’s what they say right? Surely that must apply to werewolves too.

“I’m good, thank you. Just--just fine being regular old human,” he jabbers, trying to keep his flailing to a minimum…  Although who was he kidding? This was definitely the time for flailing.

“I have to disagree, I find you far too interesting to be, _regular_ ,” Peter looks mostly human at that moment, but his eyes were far too red and his nails far too sharp. Each time Stiles' eyes flicks to them he can feel his heart beat kick up a notch.

Peter looks at him like he can tell exactly what he’s thinking – “Right.. werewolves,” Stiles mutters.

There’s a moment of frigid silence between them, where the only noise Stiles can hear is blood thrumming in his ears, culminating in what can only be described as a low grade heart attack.

“Fuck it!” he shouts, before he turns and runs directly into the woods. “Just keep going, don’t look back – don’t look back,” he says to himself like a prayer, “he’s probably got much more interesting things to-“ it’s then that Stiles hears a deep laugh echoing through the woods, followed by the sound of branches snapping abrutly to the left of him.

Stiles makes a sharp right, and runs with twice the conviction.

It feels like it’s going well for a few minutes: Stiles running, no particularly noticeable sounds nearby, and he convinces himself that he might actually be safe. However, then his hoodie snatches on a low bearing branch just that moment, and his arm is pulled back at an awful angle.

“Fuck!” he swears, trying to twist the red material out of the snag. “Fuck, fuck – FU-UCK!” he shouts, when he’s suddenly pushed free by a solid body and thrown to the ground.

Stiles tried to spit the earthy leaves away from his mouth, before screaming at the heavy weight that lands on his legs.

Peter, threatening and definitely deranged, stupidly heavy, Peter the WEREWOLF, was now straddling the back of his thighs.

“You smell exquisite, all that fear and adrenaline pumping through you, I could have tracked you all night,” Peter growls, grasping Stiles’ hands and dragging them above his head.

“Please, please don’t kill me,” It feels like a cliché, Stiles’ red hoodie, the obvious claws digging into the thin flesh of his arms, “Please, please….”

“Man, it feels good to get out.” Peter’s deep laugh does nothing to calm Stiles down.

“I really don’t want to die, I would really appreciate it if-!!” Peter cuts him off with a slow lick to the back of the neck, his teeth knocking against Stiles’ scalp.

“You are playing the part of prey very well, I’m expecting you to play dead any minute now.”

The word _dead_ doesn’t do anything to help Stiles calm down, and he begins struggling against Peter’s hold. He goes still however, when his squirming drags his arse against Peter’s very obvious erection.

“Tut tut tut, don’t hold out on me now. I’ve waited a very long time to get out of that bed and enjoy myself.” Peter's voice was as gleeful as it was cutting. 

Stiles begins his pleading again now, his voice going up an octave as Peter begins to drag down his jeans with the aid of clawed fingers.

“I’ll give you a new deal, Stiles-" Peter interupts him, "-you keep these little white thighs of yours together, and you’ll be able to go home in one piece.”

Stiles holds his breath, fighting the very strong urge to keep trying to shake the werewolf off him. “Does that include not giving me the bite?”

Peter responds with a laugh, and drags the loose blue underwear Stiles had worn that night down a few inches. “You just don’t know when to quit it, kid.”

If Stiles was considering making a snarky comment in response, it was lost when the hand that wasn’t holding his wrists down, began feel its way along the crease of where Stiles’ thighs met his ass.

Peter wasn’t quiet; he narrated his actions: “You’re so pale and soft for me, aren’t you, your flesh quivering from the cold. I bet you’re tight in here, not even thought to try exploring by yourself, there we go...” Stiles gasped as a dry finger rubbed against his entrance, his muscles locked still in fear, “…I can feel you twitching for me. Shh, shh, shh, it’s ok, I’m not even going to go inside, well, _probably_ not, let’s see how this feels, do you like that? Do you like me rubbing my cock against your little hole? Making you nice and wet, I bet I could get a finger inside you now, come on, keep your thighs together, nice and tight, fuck, fuck, yes, you feel so good. I’m not even angry you turned down the bite, Stiles, no, you’re so precious, and vulnerable, and human, even your fucking tears smell good, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Stiles is shaking slightly as he feels the hot threads of Peter’s cum coat the inside of his thighs, dripping closer to his balls each time Peter thrusts erratically downwards. He was still pulling little gasps of air into his lungs when Peter finally stops moving.

The following silence was as heavy as the weight of the man on top of him.

“Can-can I go home now?”

Peter growls, pushing his nose against Stiles’ neck, and letting his – VERY SHARP AND DEFINITELY NOT HUMAN – teeth worry against the teen’s flesh.

“You’d make a promising beta, so submissive and open to me, but…” With a put upon sigh, Peter gently kisses the slightly abused flesh of Stiles’ neck, before withdrawing from his body “…You make a far more interesting human.”

 

And with that, he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning explanation:  
> [Spoilers]  
> Peter hunts/attacks Stiles through the woods. Pins him to the floor, and threatens to hurt him. This violence allows him to non-consensual perform intercural (non penetrative) sex.   
> Peter is mentally fried at the time however. And the rest of the fic he's 'better'.  
> The rest of the fic should be considered dubcon
> 
> \------
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comment if you feel like it (;  
>  


	2. Awkward Virgin Stiles Cliché

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic is determined to have a plot even when I'm trying to just write cliches.  
> See end of fic for extra warnings.

"awkward virgin stiles cliché" = (aka. Stiles wants to get laid, but is playing with fire. OR. Peter has a human kink)

 

They don’t ever really talk about it, that night in the forest. At first because Peter is literally a psychopath that is trying to kill everyone, and control Scott, generally all around ruin their lives; and then because he’s dead, which would halt any conversation, really… After that, well, it just doesn’t really come up.

Stiles was just fine with that, yep, 100% a-ok with never even acknowledging that time when Peter Hale decided that Stiles' body was his own property. Definitely never – EVER – thinking about it when alone in bed, and conflicted and jacking himself off. It _does not_ come to mind when they’re arguing about how much of a fucking sociopath Peter is and how he shouldn’t even be allowed in the pack.

Nope, no sir-ee, Stiles hasn’t ever felt the urge to bring it up. Not once. 

Not that he’s ever really had the chance to, which _is_ kind of the problem. Peter was around a lot for someone who wasn’t really part of their pack. Especially for someone who never actually helped them. In fact, all he did really do was try his best to make their lives miserable, or at least a little bit harder. Normally that meant sarcastically berating Derek's plans while sprawled out on a sofa eating their supplies. Sometimes, he'll remind Scott who turned him when the boy is trying to do an inspirational pep-talk, just to be a pain. When they're all grouped together, Peter had even purposely said salacious things to Stiles, reminding him that he was just a puny human who was decidedly lacking in the ‘brains _or_ brawns department’, and laughed at him when Stiles tried to defend his honour. But whenever the rest of the pack would head out, Peter tended to either completely ignore him, or find a reason to disappear and not interact with Stiles at all.

So that was it really. Stiles had no reason to actually think about it, because it’s not like he could bring it up, if he wanted to –NOT THAT HE WANTED TO OR ANYTHING. Although _maybe_ if Peter would have just acknowledged that it happened one time, then Stiles could at least ask him if it meant that they’d technically had sex.

Because yeah, Stiles was pretty preoccupied with the fact that he may or may not be a virgin.

“We’re going to scout out the forest to see if any of those tracks show up, you alright with staying here again, Stiles?” Scott was looking at him hopefully, like Stiles won’t complain that yet again that he’s being left out as the human member of the pack.

Stiles scrunches up his nose.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll stay here and do the utterly important job of researching what we’ve already spent four hours going over.”

“Awesome dude, I’ll give you a text when we’re on the way back,” Scott says, quickly following the rest of the team out the door, “I’ll bring pizza! Bye!”

Peter snorted loudly from his position on the sofa. Stiles quickly narrowed his eyes at him in return, expecting Peter to make a snarky comment, or at least do his normal vanishing act. The man didn’t appear to be leaving though, he just returned to his book – which was definitely not research and instead some kind of paperback novel – ignoring Stiles completely. Silence permeates the room, confirming the fact that Peter – while not physically leaving – was upholding his 'not ever acknowledging Stiles’ existence while alone' plan.

Stiles took the moment to just look at the man. The translucent white shirt he was wearing, unbuttoned outlandishly low, did very little to hide Peter’s body. The thin material hugged every groove of the man's defined torso, and sunk dangerously into the deep V-grooves of Peter's hips. It was the man’s arms however that mostly attracted Stiles’, they were thick and toned, and as Peter turned a page Stiles could see his veins shift under his skin. Which in hindsight sounded like the creepiest thing ever said about a person. No wonder Stiles was – _still probably_ – a virgin when his idea of attractive was ‘I like the way your veins move under your skin’ – yep, with moves like that, Stiles was definitely going to die a virgin. Well, _possibly_ a virgin.

Peter decided in that moment to flick his eyes up, and responded to Stiles’ quite obvious staring with a bemused eyebrow quirk. The boy flinched and looked down at his laptop instead, trying to pretend he wasn’t just staring at the man.

In an attempt to not get caught again, Stiles browsed the internet. He typed some sarcastic replies on a Deadpool forum, before finding some Lord of the Rings posts he needed to get caught up on. This quickly derailed into reading up what elf sex would be like, and whether or not Legolas would be a top. Stiles, for his part, forgot that he was sharing a room with a werewolf until Peter interrupted his post on what elves would use for lube with, “I don’t think you’re old enough for whatever it is you’re reading, Stiles.”

Stiles squeaked, and slammed his laptop lid down, in case Peter was standing right behind him. He wasn’t. Peter was still on the opposite side of the room, fixing Stiles with another bemused stare.

“Wh-what!? Why would you say that?!” Stiles told himself that Peter had no possible way of seeing through his laptop case to see what he was writing, and the older wolf was probably just winding him up. Werewolves definitely did not have x-ray eyesight. At least he hoped not.

“You forget that teenage hormones do very little to conceal what you’re up to.”

Shame. That was how Stiles felt in that moment. In fact, not dissimilar to how he felt the time when his father had walked in on him jerking off to gay porn – WAIT A MINUTE – that was NOT a correlation that Stiles felt able to deal with! Abort mission: 1/10, would not accidentally cast aspersions on his relationship with older men again. 

“It wasn’t porn,” is the first thing that Stiles decided to say, which was surprisingly idiotic, as it was most definitely was porn and they both know that Peter heard that lie and the bastard just stared at him with a smirk on his face.

“Urrgghh!” Stiles groaned hiding his face in his arms, hoping it at least slightly covered some of the scarlet tone his face had become.

A burst of laughter erupted from Peter, and when Stiles peeked up to look at him he saw the man clutching his chest and his head thrown back; a little smile sneaks onto Stiles’ lips in response. Peter’s body was splayed out, relaxed and genuine, his mirth instigating what felt like a moment of honest communication from the man. Stiles enjoyed it, trying to memorize the easy slump of Peter’s shoulders, and deep chuckles that rippled through his chest.

“Teenagers truly are ridiculous. So caught up in sexual frustration and incurably awkward. You’re like the world’s practical joke.” Peter was wiping away tears from his eyes. Stiles scowled at the insult.

“I’m not sexually frustrated.” Another lie.

Peter’s smirk was now back in place. He stretched, allowing his shirt to rise up slightly and reveal a sliver of his stomach. Compulsively, Stiles glanced down to glimpse the toned muscle and trail of hair, causing him to swallow. Peter’s smirk became a grin.

“Mmmh, I have the feeling you’re not being too honest about that...” The werewolf put down his paperback now, and was staring purposefully at Stiles. The young brunet didn’t know if he was pleased or not that Peter had finally decided to stop his ‘let’s pretend Stiles doesn’t exist’ game. At the moment it felt like either something very dangerous or very embarrassing was about to happen. Probably embarrassing, because Stiles had little to no control over his mouth.

“I could have lots of things going… You know, with different people, doing... stuff.”

“I don’t think so, Stiles. In fact,“ Peter rose from his seat and drifted towards the table Stiles’ occupied. The man grinned like teasing Stiles was the most amusing thing he’d done in a while. “I think you’ve had very little experience outside of your own hand.”

Was Peter flirting with him? Fuck, Stiles was hard just thinking of Peter touching him, was that wrong? After what had happened, maybe he should have been more openly supportive of the Peter-and-Stiles-never-talking thing. Stiles was suddenly very conscious of his body and Peter’s proximity to it. Peter was leaning slightly over the table, his hands a few inches from Stiles’ own. The table edge concealed the obvious bulge in Stiles' jeans, although maybe if Peter could see it he’d be a little more encouraged to actually act on it.

“Yeah, yeah, ok, I guess not... But, I’d like to... You know... Do more….” Fuck, Stiles was bad at this, he chided himself; he forced himself not to look at Peter, in an attempt to not be put off. He moved his hand forward with the intent to grasp Peter’s hand, but quick as a flash, Peter had snatched his arm and pinned his wrist to the table. Stiles whined noisily, the pressure on his wrist reminding him how hard his pulse was racing, and doing very little to abate his hard on.

“Yeah, ok, please….” He was already panting a little, the flight of adrenaline and the thought of something happening quickening his breathing. Stiles looked at Peter now, relieved to not see the man laughing at him, but unsure how to interpret the expression he wore all the same.  “I’d like to do something with you... Or, you know, I’d like you to do something to me.” Peter’s grip on his wrist became a little tighter, and Stiles whined again. Peter closed his eyes for a second before pinning him with a hard look.

“Do you even give a shit how needy you sound right now?” His voice was slightly rough, and Stiles just shook his head in response. Peter dropped Stiles’ wrist and moved to kick the chair Stiles was sitting on out from under the table. He walked up close, and used his foot to spread Stiles legs apart. The movement caused the boy’s jeans to press against his erection, and Peter didn’t stop pushing until a flare of pain prickled up at the strain in Stiles’ thighs. The teen let out another needy whine, his eyes closed in an attempt to stop himself from jumping up and rubbing against the man in front of him.

“You’d let me do anything to you right now, wouldn’t you?” Peter grabbed Stiles’ jaw, and pressed a thumb into his cheek until the boy had to pop his mouth open to relieve the pressure.

Stiles tried to nod, but his movement was restricted from Peter's hold.

“I’m afraid desperate virgin isn’t really my type, though,” he said coldly.

Stiles’ eyes flicked open, and he blushed furiously at Peter’s taunting. “I used to be your type.” He bit out with a challenge.

Stiles regretted saying it instantly, and Peter’s eyes flashed blue as he squeezed Stiles’ jaw harder until the boy winced in pain.

“Indeed” he growled, a hard look passing over his features before he let go of Stiles jaw. With one final glare, he turned on his heel and left, the heavy metal door clanging behind him.

“Shit!” Stiles sighed, rubbing his jaw. Idly he wondered if it was bad taste to go and jack off in the bathroom to the thought of Peter pinning his hands to the table, the wolf’s muttered dismissal still fresh in his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles knocked on Peter’s door a few days later. He knew the man was in, as he’d just been with Derek who had spoken to Peter on the phone. This meant that when there was no immediate answer, Stiles knew for a fact that Peter was ignoring him.

“Peter! I know you’re there!” he shouted, knocking again at the thick pine door and trying the handle. The boy was surprised when the door opened under his hand, and swung open inwards. Slipping in with an attempt at grace, Stiles almost tripped over when his eyes instantly fell on Peter stirring a cup of coffee in the small kitchenette that lead directly into the hallway Stiles was standing in.

“The door was open!” Stiles says in his defence.

“Normally an open door is for those who are offered an invitation.” 

“Oh, right, yeah... Derek gave me this to give to you,” which wasn’t really a lie, it just failed to mention that Stiles had begged Derek to let him be the one to drop off the oddly shaped package.

“I see. Well, thank you, Stiles. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” Peter wasn’t even bothering to look at him anymore, instead picking at some invisible lint on his tighter-than-necessary henley.

“I shouldn’t have said it. Ok? I know that.” Great - Stiles chided himself - he had definitely just entered the realm of word vomit.

“I don’t really care, Stiles, it’s quite darling that you feel so determined to tell me-“

“Is it because of Laura? Like you have to – FUCK!” You would have thought that Stiles was used to being slammed up against walls by various acquaintances, due to just how many werewolves he had in life at such a time. Normally, however, it wasn’t by one of the wolves who had genuinely gone psycho at one point and killed people, so he excused himself for the fear.

“You really don’t want to finish that thought.” Peter growled at him. Stiles _did_ finish the thought though, it was something he’d thought of a lot. That Peter killed his _niece_ , a niece he had once purported to love... and he had never once even tried to justify his actions. 

Peter’s clawed grip on Stiles t-shirt was now causing holes. Stiles' shoulder was beginning to ache from the impact of the wall, and he was reminded how much smaller he was than Peter now that he was crowded so thoroughly against a hard surface.

“I just wanted you to know that I don’t think you’re the same person.” He was whispering, like he didn’t want the words to come out too obtrusively.

“Maybe you should,” Peter bit out, before throwing Stiles to the floor. The scariest aspect of the situation was that Peter didn’t really use actions to threaten anymore. Like sure, he’d definitely cut up some bodies in his psycho stage, but these days, Peter’s favourite game was to dick them over with words. Not really lying, more like manipulating them with the truth. The fact that he was deciding to respond physically, instead of just cutting Stiles down verbally, was considerably intimidating.

“Is this what you were hoping for?” Peter followed him down to the ground. Stiles was on his back, and made an attempt to lean up onto his elbows before Peter pulled them out from under him and he smacked right back to the floor again.

“Get me angry enough I might hold you down and rut against you?” Stiles was panting now, his cock hardening at Peter’s words, but his heart was pumping mostly from the cruel look on Peter’s face.

“How lonely you must be, Stiles. So desperate for some attention, that you’re begging someone who took you on a whim for validation. It’s disgusting. You’re _pathetic_.” Peter’s words were sharper than claws tearing at Stiles’ feelings; he felt hot inside with mortification, and suddenly felt like this had been a really stupid mistake.

“Fuck you,” he whispered, making an abortive attempt  to tug his hands out of Peter’s grip, and then looking off to the side as if ignoring Peter would make his presence more tolerable.

Peter laughed at him, his tone back to smirking and playful, like he’d regained the upper hand and he was enjoying it.

“Now, now. Don’t get resentful.” Peter’s fingers brushed against the tented denim of Stiles’ crotch, and the teen let out a moan unintentionally. “I’m finally feeling like giving you what you wanted.”

Tears of embarrassment still in his eyes, Stiles let himself sigh into the pleasure of Peter’s thumb slowly stroking the underside of his erection. He tried to relax, and not move or beg, but after a few minutes of no increased stimulation, he couldn’t really help himself.

“Please,” he whined, lifting his hips up to get more friction “Please, Peter, I want, I need-”

“Shhhh,” Peter said, although he finally began undoing Stiles’ trousers and slid his free hand under the teen’s shirt. “That’s it. Just stay still for me and I’ll give you what you want. You look so slutty, all flushed red and dishevelled.” Peter’s hand was now cupping Stiles’ cock through his boxers, rubbing it hard enough that copious amounts of precum was spilling from the tip. “Your little cock looks so pretty peeking out at me.”

Stiles flushed again from the comments, making Peter laugh. “That’s what you look like to me, Stiles. Pretty and slutty. So soft. So delicate. So human. It’s a wonder I don’t slip and cause some damage.” To punctuate his words, Peter dragged his claws down Stiles’ ribs, as if to remind Stiles’ that at any moment Peter could really hurt him.

It was intoxicating: the fear, the adrenaline, the hormones, the feeling of having his dick touched by someone that wasn’t him; being laughed at yet complimented. The thought of Peter turning him over and repeating what he had once done in the woods…

“Please! Please, I’m close... I’m so close, Peter.” He was babbling now, trying to shove his hips up into Peter’s hand, but limited by the clawed grip of the older man.

“You can come just like this. Your little cock getting stroked, through your knickers. Look how wet you are, you’re dripping.” Pressure of Peter’s fingers against his dick was steady and repetitive, the man’s fingers catching the ridge of Stiles’ erection on every stroke. The rubbing movement was increasing Stiles’ sensitivity, while the low growl of Peter’s words that were as angry as they were reverent. The combination of stimuli stoked the teen’s pleasure to a peak. “You smell so good I’m tempted to dip my tongue there and taste you.” Stiles would never really know if it was the thought of Peter putting his mouth on his cock, or being humiliated by being spoken to like a girl, but something pushed him over the edge.

“Ok! OKOKOKOK! Ah! Ah!” Stiles saw white and pleasure swam up his spine as he felt his cock pulse warm come all over himself and into his boxers. Peter was still murmuring at him through it, using monikers like “That’s it, baby. Look at you making a mess of yourself. You’re filthy. You look so good and helpless. I could hurt you so hard and all you would do is cry.” Stiles was already crying a little bit, overwhelmed with pleasure and the exhaustion of trying to get off.

“Shut up,” he croaked. His eyes were closed, so he missed the movement of Peter putting his hand around Stiles’ throat. Stiles nervously looked up at him. His limbs were heavy and he felt himself go very limp as Peter slowly squeezed his windpipe.

“P-Peter?”

“Shhh…” he soothed, squeezing the boy’s throat a little tighter, as if it wasn’t already obvious that Peter liked him to stay quiet. Peter didn’t look so playful anymore and Stiles instantly yearned for the lighthearted, if cruel, humiliation from moments before, over this intent stare. Peter just looked like he wanted to hurt him. The muscles in his arms were clenched with repressed violence.

“I want you to stay very, very still,” Peter grit out, pulling his own erection from his sweat pants and jerking himself aggressively over Stiles’ supine body. Stiles did stay still, trying not to fight for air each time Peter squeezed his throat a little too hard, and dragging in a breath each time the man’s hand shifted to get a more thorough hold on his neck. It was really starting to hurt, but Stiles didn’t want to think about what would happen if he asked Peter to stop.

Instead, he tracked Peter’s eyes that were darting meanly from the hand on his throat, to Stiles’ body, then down to the increasingly stained wet cloth of Stiles’ underwear as his semen soaked through the fabric. A few times he glanced up to Stiles’ lips, especially when Stiles did something sudden like lick them or suck one of them into his mouth, but that was always accompanied with an extra tight squeeze of his throat. After what felt like eternity, but was more likely only ten or so minutes, Peter began talking again.

“You have no idea what you look like. I could pull you apart. Press my claws under your ribs and open you up. So pink, and soft, and vulnerable. You look so good for me. Fuck, yeah, so-so good for me” Peter’s come splashed purposely up the boy’s torso, most of it soaking into the already wet material of his crotch and painting the bare skin of his stomach, some of it even reaching the bunched up layers of his shirt that was still stuck halfway up his chest. Peter’s eyes were glowing blue again, and as he jerked out the last stripes of come onto Stiles, his fingers pressed painfully into the boy’s windpipe before finally releasing him.

They were both panting now, Stiles’ hands instantly going to his neck to massage his throat – or possibly protect it from further assault. Peter recovered first however, tucking himself away, and leaping up to walk over to one of the kitchen cupboards. Stiles watched him as he got out a box of cigarettes and a lighter, and begun to light one.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Stiles croaked, not expecting his voice to be so rough.

“There’s many things you don’t know, Stiles,” Peter muttered back, not bothering to look at him. He grabbed a long coat and pushed his feet into some shoes strewn by the door, and then left the apartment without a glance back.

Stiles didn’t really know how he felt. Part of him felt like crying, while another felt relieved to have a moment to himself to assimilate what had just happened.

He looked down at the mess of himself, considering whether or not to take advantage of a shower, and realised that his erection had returned. Fuck, he resolved, he was definitely messed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, comment/kudos if you enjoyed it.  
> [Spoiler] Warnings:  
> dub-con/somewhat consensual violence.  
> The lack of discussion of the behaviour is what makes this so dubious, like, it is not what you'd call healthy/informed consent.  
> But Stiles very much is participating this time round, it is not like chapter one.  
> There is a layer of humiliation in this chapter, although verbal, not physical.  
> Side note: there's also some Britishism, that apparently annoy every American I've ever met /laughs.


	3. Peter Manipulates Stiles (with sex) Cliche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I've come to accept that this whole story has a dark-bad-touch trajectory. The aim is to still have fluff in it, I'm just not 100% sure where. /laughs.
> 
> I think once we know a little more on what's going on with Peter it won't /feel/ so dark, but ya'know, this is Stiles' brain.  
> This has barely been beta-ed btw, so, mistakes will hopefully be edited out soon, but I just wanted to get the chapter up.  
> See end for extra warnings.

 

 

"Peter Manipulates Stiles (with sex) Cliche = (aka. Stiles knows something that Peter wants, Peter decides to use sex as a tool to get it from him)

“Hi guys.” Stiles called cheerfully, sauntering into Derek’s apartment. Most of the pack was there already, catching up on what had been going on over the last week. There had been a lull in supernatural activity of late, however Derek was still enforcing ‘the pack needs to stay on alert’ mandatory meetings once a week. Stiles knew they were mandatory because he missed the last one, which resulted in Derek turning up at a meal Stiles was having with his father, asking him what was going on:

“Um, I’m eating fish cakes?” Stiles had answered, through a mouth full of fishcakes.

“You knew there was a meeting on tonight, a pack isn’t optional Stiles. You're either in it, or you're out of it.” Derek had growled, apparently without any shame that he’d jumped into a private table and his elbow was dangerous close to a weeping pot of horseradish sauce. Stiles didn’t know how long it’d be before his father would return to the table from the loo, and even though he was now aware of the supernatural world that Stiles frequented, he wouldn’t appreciate it following them to a restaurant.

“Derek! It’s one night! You know I don’t get to see my father often, just let it go. I’ll come to the next one, I promise! Now, you know, shoo!”

Derek fixed him with a hard stare, before glancing at the table, scowling at the garlic baguette as if it had personally offended him, “So you’re really just here to catch up with your father?” Stiles nodded in response and made another shooing gesture with his hands.

The truth was however that Stiles had leapt at the chance to skip the meeting when his father had offered a night out together. He had needed a bit of time away from the pack. Firstly, because he was pretty sure that even his hair smelt like Peter, and that when your friends were werewolves, it takes more than a shower to cover up misdeeds. Secondly, he hadn’t really decided yet how he was going to respond to the “so, that was pretty fucked up, right?” part 2, and didn’t want to let Peter decide how it was going to unfold this time around.

But, by the following week, Stiles had yet to successfully conceptualise what was going on, and decided to just play it by ear. He kinda’ wanted to talk to Peter himself, and maybe since 'the event' it would be a little easier.

“So, anything going bump in the night yet, or are we still on full alert over nothing? If so, I vote we just accept that tonight should actually be the night you all start appreciating Stargate!” he chattered excitably, eyeing Peter on the sofa, and trying to casually insinuate himself next to the man without making it too obvious to everyone else.

Peter’s reaction - much to Stiles’ hopeful ego’s chagrin - was to stand up and state his distaste at the official “adult to cloying children ratio” and head out the door. Stiles’ was blushing like he’d personally been jilted but the rest of the pack didn’t seem to notice anything.

“Jeez.. What a fucker” he muttered. Scott snorted a laugh, before Derek interrupted that he wanted the whole pack to meet him in the woods to begin physical training again.

Over the next few weeks though, Stiles came to realise that Peter was doing an even better job of avoiding him than before _the incident with the floor and the intense staring_. Stiles knew this because he never saw the man, but whenever he complained about Peter, someone would have an anecdote to relay from ‘just the other day’ when _they_ had saw him.

“You mean Peter was just here?” Stiles said suspiciously to Derek,

“Yeah, he had some things to drop off and helped us with resetting the window Scott broke last week”

“But he left, just before I got here?”

“I guess so, he didn’t really say good bye”

“So, he was here… But just, left, when, I don’t know, I was in my car and driving towards this house…”

“Yes? Stiles..” Derek said with a sigh, like this conversation was really starting to give him a headache, “is there a point to this?”

“Oh, nope. No point. Nothing. Nothing what-so-fucking-ever, everything is fine, just-fucking-fine. Perfect actually. It’s perfect.”

Derek’s face was now so screwed up in confusion at Stiles’ ranting, that you could barely see his eyes.

“You alright there buddy?” Intervened Scott.

“YES! Yes! Like I said, I’m just great!”

“It’s just… You tend to get really positive about things when you’re upset over something..”

“NOPE! You know, what, actually, yes, there’s something I don’t get. Something I super don’t get. Which is, why the fuck do we even have Peter around? Half the pack hates him - he doesn’t actually do any work. He’d be happier if we all died in a fight - definitely happier if you died Derek, so, why the fuck do we even-”

“He’s not totally useless Stiles,” Derek said with a sigh, “he’s been more useful recently, and it’d be more useful if we all focused on our own roles right now”.

“Well then, that’s - you know what, that’s just great Derek… Totally great… You know, I’m gonna’ go and think on my role some. Yeah? Perfect.. So yeah… Great..”

* * *

 

So, maybe Stiles wasn’t really in the best of places as the moment. And that was just fine - really it was - ok, it wasn’t, but he _was_ dealing. Dealing with being ignored by the guy who had possibly taken his virginity twice (and yes, that was another thing he was just a-ok with, maybe having lost his virginity AGAIN, that was just great) and finding out that everyone had suddenly decided that said man was actually alright just when Stiles had finally put himself in the Peter-Hale-Should-Just-Die-In-A-Hole camp. (Stiles, maybe-possibly-definitely had been taking a little too much adderall of late, hence his sudden affinity to elongated sentences.)

But, you know, things could get worse, like they did, the following week.

“So now you _don’t_ trust Peter, huh?” Stiles eyes were narrowed meanly, leveling Derek with an accusing stare.

“It’s not that I don’t trust Peter, it’s that I’ve never trusted Peter, and it’s just for the best he isn’t tempted by a situation like this.”

“So, like I said, you don’t trust him.”

Derek had been sighing a lot recently, it wasn’t that different from his scowl-face, except his forehead was more creased.

“I don’t understand why you’re making me explain this Stiles, just yesterday you were telling me that I was wrong for letting him stay in the County!”

“And if you can’t trust him, maybe I was right!”

“That’s ENOUGH” Derek was shouting now, “Scott and I are going to the caves to do the ritual, I’ve already told you our phones might not get signal there, but even if you don’t hear from us, you’re under no circumstances to go to Peter for help”

“Of course I won’t go to him, I’M the only one who seems to appreciate how untrustworthy he is!”

“Ok, fine Stiles. We’ll leave in the next 10 minutes, the pack will be scouting the area”

“Yes, yes, and I’ll stay here, and research, I get it, good, just go”

It took about 20 minutes before Peter turned up. Stiles’ skin prickled slightly on seeing him, it’d been a while. The images of him lying on Peter’s floor with the man’s hand around his throat flooded his brain, resulting in his heart rate jacking up a few notches up upon seeing him. But Stiles was also angry, angry that Peter was clearly only here because he knew that Stiles had information he wanted.

“Where’s Derek, Stiles?” Peter asked, his body language was relaxed as he leaned against the door jam in Derek’s apartment. Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not going to answer that question,” he said, seething a little, and trying to use that anger to strengthen his resolve against Peter.

Peter, to his credit, appeared to gauge the situation correctly and gave a small nod before wandering into the room.

“I think we both know that you’re going to give me what I want Stiles.” He kept a fair amount of distance between them still, but every step closer is like a slap in the face after all the silence Stiles had endured.

“Really? Is that what you think!” Stiles’ arms were in full flail mode now, but, what could he say, he was pissed, “You play Mr. Fucking-Vanished-Into-Thin-Air” - granted, pissed but _not_ eloquent - “For weeks, and now you want to talk to me. Now I know something you want!?”

“So I’m right, there is something I would like to know about going on right now…”

“UGHED!” Stiles seethed, collapsing into the nearest chair, “You should just get out Peter, there’s nothing here for you”. His hands were cradling his face, but he peeks up at Peter to see what the man chooses to do.

The expression on Peter’s face was one of a man weighing up his options, he looked at his hand with a considering glance, his claws creeping out for a moment before he sighs and shakes off the more deathly styled nails.

“So, I see it this way. You have something I want, and I have something you want. And although even _I’m_ painfully aware it’s a bad idea, I’m going to give you what you want.” In a smooth motion Peter takes off his shirt, making sure he’s made eye contact with Stiles.

“I don’t want anything you have,” Stiles says, but he’s already sat back up to watch what Peter is doing, his right legging bobbing with anticipation. Or nerves, sure, nerves makes more sense. Right?

“Sure you do Stiles,” Peter answers undoing the top button of his fashionable bootcut jeans, but doesn’t appear plan to undo them anymore, and just kicks his shoes off before padding towards Stiles in socks. “You’ve been sulking this whole time without me, I’m just giving in to your whiney little pouts”.

“Fuck off!” Stiles hissed, but didn't put up a struggle as Peter hoisted him out of the chair and placed him on the nearest surface: which happened to be one of Derek’s kitchen counters. It probably wasn't the least sanitary use it had ever seen - especially with the number of bleeding bodies that past through the house - but it felt a little wretched all the same. Accurate then, Stiles mused, as the whole thing was wretched.

“So bitter and grouchy,” Peter hummed, gripping Stiles' jaw so he can rub his thumb against the younger boy’s lips, “so desperate for affection”.

“I hate you, I don’t need your fucking affection-” he lets his thighs slip open wider though, to allow Peter to nudge in closer, and begin divesting him of his shirt so the man could get his fingernails in Stiles’ throat tendons. “-I’m not going to let you just have me when you’re only doing it for information”

“Yes you will sweetheart,” Stiles moaned a little at the endearment, and Peter smirked at him from above, rubbing his jaw against the Stiles’ scalp - scenting him - before moving his lips to Stiles’ ear so he could whisper hotly into it, “you’re just so needy, and attention-starved, you’d take it from anywhere.”

“Fucker, you bastard, you, oh, oh-ok”

Most of Stiles’ shirt buttons were undone by now, and Peter’s hand groped him languidly, giving his skin affectionate pats, even though his grip on Stiles’ jaw was still crushing in its hold.

“It’s just so hard for you, because you act like I’m this monster that does terrible things to you, but what you want, darling, is praise. Don’t you sweetheart. Look how prettily you whine for me, so good for me.” Peter’s petting had drifted low enough that he was directly stroking Stiles’ cock now. “That’s it, just relax, there - how about you suck on my fingers - show me how happy it makes you to be reduced to this. It’s pathetic, aren’t you sunshine, so miserable and alone that they left you here again. You’ll take whatever I give you.”

Stiles made a distressed noise at the bitter undertones of Peter’s words, “I hate you, I hate you” he slurs around the fingers that were massaging his tongue.

“Shh, shh, I know - I know, that was too cruel. And you just want to feel cherished right now. And I’m going to give it to you, hear that sweetheart, I’m going to give you what you want. Tell you how precious, and special, and important you are to me.” Peter pulled Stiles body forward enough - one leg wrapped firmly around Peter’s waist - that he can reach into the back of the boys jeans with the saliva soaked fingers that he’d finally removed from Stiles’ mouth.

Now that his mouth is free, Stiles was moaning louder, pushing his hips up against the hand still massaging his cock, and shifting his body nervously as Peter’s dexterous fingers stroked lower and lower down the cleft of his ass. Peter was also shifting his body, grinding his cock into the soft flesh of Stiles’ inner thigh, the stimulation clearly getting to him as his next words were slightly more growling and less controlled smirking.

“You’re wasted on them darling, they can’t see it, just how interesting you are. You’re better than all of them-” Stiles was collapsed back against the wall now, one hand clenched with a death grip on Peter’s arm as the man just _traced_ over his entrance with spit slicked fingers “-Just let them go sweetheart, they’re dirt compared to you. You could watch them burn, you could _make_ them burn, I can fucking taste it on you” he says, leaning forward, crushing his own hand against Stiles’ prick, so he can plunge his tongue into Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles’ was keening by then, the mixture of receiving his first kiss, the oh-so-good threat of Peter’s fingers pushing inside him, all alongside the disturbingly satisfying words littering him. In a caustic mix it was pushing him towards the edge of climaxing.

He felt destroyed, like Peter was over-writing every little bit of his identity, plunging the words of bitterness into his mouth with a tongue that didn’t bother to teach him the delicate world of a first kiss.

Terrified suddenly, that Peter was going to infect him with his madness - and the rising memory of the fact that Peter was only kissing him to manipulate him - Stiles bites down on the muscle, shocked slightly however at the taste and feeling of blood entered his mouth. Peter immediately reared back with a hiss in reaction to the bite, however blood appears to be more of an aphrodisiac than anything else to Peter, given the fact that the man moaned and then moved forward to resume his ravaging of the boy’s mouth.

“No, you’re wrong, I-I’m not like that!” Stiles squirms, his legs strong enough to at least dislodge Peter from inside his jeans, and using his arms to try and peel the hand away from his weeping cock.

He glanced up at the man, and gasps. Peter looked gone, his eyes are glowing, and his chest is panting heavily. Stiles had been mostly sure that the werewolf would be serenely smirking at him, and the sweat on his skin turns cold with uncertainty on just exactly _what_  was going on here, “I don’t want this, just get out.” Stiles perseveres all the same though.

The man looked poised to just ignore him, but the pain of Peter’s own admission that he was only coddling Stiles for his own ends gave Stiles a false pulse of confidence, “Just get out, I don’t even fucking care.” He was definitely shouting now, “Go find Derek when he’s too weak to fight you, just as long as you fucking get out of here.”

Peter takes a good few steps backwards staring, appearing slightly dumbfounded for a moment. If Stiles didn’t know better - which he does, particularly that Peter is a self-serving bastard who only came tonight to get this information - he would say that Peter was no longer thinking about whatever was happening with Derek that night.

Stiles took the moment to slide off the counter and at least try to pull his jeans up a little. He was still panting, and his body was asking him just why he stopped doing something that felt so very good just moments before.

Peter, now recovering, took another few steps backwards and collected his shirt. He didn’t say anything until he had slotted his feet back into his shoes, and righted the rest of his clothing. With a tight smile he looked at Stiles, his voice at least bearing its usual smugness, a bit out a “pleasure doing business with you, Stiles” before leaving the loft.

When the door closed, Stiles fell to his knees with a cry. He hated him. He hated Peter. For saying all those cruel, and bitter things. For saying those fucking poisonous things, that played into all the doubts that Stiles had about his friends. But he hated Peter the most for all the wonderful affectionate things, that the bastard some how knew about him, knew that he wanted. He felt utterly obliterated.

It took an hour for him to finally pull himself together, wash his face in the kitchen sink, before suddenly darting to his phone to text Scott:

 **To BroWolf:** How’s it going? Any sign of Peter? Are you all ok????

 **To BatKid:** All ok. Ali said she saw Peter go into his house over half an hour ago. So... guess we should have listened to Derek on trusting Peter :S

 **To BroWolf:** worst.idea.ever.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Stiles pulled his things together and began to make the journey back to his own house. It was only when he’d climbed into his own bed and reached over to put his phone of charge that he fumbled with his contacts to write a message:

 **To 2zombie2function:** u didn’t go after Derek.  
**To 2zombie2function:** Just cuz Im fucked up, don’t think Im too stupid to realise how fucked up you are too.

He was half asleep when the text came through.

 **To Batkid:** Stupid is never something I’ve thought of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole fic borders horridly on dub-con, especially in this chapter. Which I'm not overly proud of. There's a lot of red-lights, and I'm not at all pretending this kind of relationship is healthy.
> 
> Even though I'm horrible, please give me tips & comments in the review box.


	4. An interlude of sorts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter has officially morphed into an interlude. Many of you appeared to be super interested in the plot (don't worry, so am I) which meant that I had to answer a lot of questions in this chapter, and give you all more insights into what is going on, that there wasn't really space to give the next cliche center stage. So, here's a plot-chapter, hopefully you'll enjoy it. 
> 
> Read the updated tags for warnings, and see end notes for [spoiler-ish] further explanations.

An Interlude of Sorts (aka. Tea Parties are very easy to start, but notoriously difficult to finish).

 

Stiles is lying on Scott’s bed. His head is tipped off the side, his legs slightly up the wall, and he’s staring - upside down - at the open window in front of him. The menu screen of Jurassic park 2 is playing on repeat quietly, and the various scenes of the film that populate it is the only light in the room.

Stiles is alone. Although, not the only one in the house as Melissa is downstairs filing her paperwork, it’s because of this that Stiles is still lying there instead of grabbing his things and going home. He doesn’t want her to ask him where he’s going, mainly because he isn’t supposed to tell her that Scott has just slipped out his bedroom window for some demon hunting.

So Stiles just lies there for another 10 minutes, his phone laying on his chest, waiting to hear back from Scott on whether it was a false alarm and he’ll be back to finish their dinosaur marathon… Or the more likely alternative, that they’ll have to raincheck tonight because Scott is busy, and Stiles… Stiles should just stay back, _‘Just to be safe, ya’know?’_

Stiles knows. He knows because this isn’t even the first time that week he’d been told to hang back for his own safety. It’s not really his father’s fault, the man was pretty much expected to begin getting exasperated that his son was spending all his time out at night, coming back with bruises, cuts, and inexplicable connections to crime scenes. But, when the Sheriff cornered Scott and asked him (ok, maybe begged is a more appropriate word) to tell him what was going on with Stiles, or at least try to keep his boy safe, Stiles just didn’t expect Scott to listen to him. And he didn’t expect the pack to listen to Scott.

So, Stiles had caved and clued his father in about the supernatural world, gave him the extra censored and edited version of everything that happened, and put some extra weight on how his friends had super strength to help protect him. It meant they had a less frayed relationship now (not without its secrets still, of course) but, it didn’t really change things back to the way they were… In fact, Stiles had the sneaking suspicion that his Dad had gone straight back to Scott and said something about Stiles being the only squishy human, and how he expected that to mean that Stiles was kept out of the line of fire.

So that left him here. In limbo, still in the realm of the supernatural, but just outside where all his friends were. Always the one behind, always the one waiting, always the one expected to be left to catch up later..

A chime ran through Stiles chest as his phone notified him of a text, he scrabbled to open it.

 **From BroWolf:** Things taking a bit longer than we thought. We’ll have to watch JP 2  & 3 another time bro. Dont worry about coming out though! It’s all covered.

Another night on the periphery then.

Stiles let the phone fall back onto his chest, he was beginning to feel a little dizzy from all the blood rushing to his head. But that just helped him not really focus on what was in front of him. He was looking through it, as if the window was really a screen showing him some of the interactions he’d had of late. He knew he’d been to school, sat in the cafeteria, scrabbled together some homework and joked his way out of being marked late for class… He just couldn’t really remember it, like he wasn’t really the one there doing it.

It was a bit like being off adderall, when everything just began to run together, and he couldn’t get his mind to focus on any one thing. He remembers being young, and his father grabbing his arm and asking (yelling) “What are you doing!?” and Stiles had just looked down at himself, about to pour a cup of water on the toaster. He could never remember getting there, but the heart-pumping-adrenaline of the moment of doing something that might go wrong had woken him up a bit, kept him in the moment for long enough to enjoy and retain something… He yearned for that right now. 

It’s not that he had a deathwish, he liked being alive. He loved his father, and couldn’t bare to leave him. But he also had plans, and damn good ones at that, which involved going to College, getting a job, exploring the world. Finding out what Europe was like, visiting his mother’s homeland, his long distant family members. He had plans, and they involved being here.

It was just that he sometimes needed a bit help remembering he was alive.

Stiles picked up his phone and hesitated on the create text option..

 **To 2zombie2function:** I keep thinking about all the times we’ve been alone...

-He doesn’t add that those memories are one of the few that he’s been able to hold onto properly recently.-

 **To 2zombie2function:** and Ive finally admitted that I have no clue whats going on.

He waits for ten minutes for a reply, his eyes blurring out over the little ‘tick’ in the corner that says the message has been delivered. Stiles holds his breath in frustration, making bets with himself ‘if I can just hold it in for a little bit longer, he’ll reply’, his chest quaking with pain as the tension mounts within him. When he finally gasps out the stale air, quickly followed by some frantic panting inwards again, his mind feels a little bit more clear, even if his hands are now shaking slightly. He sends another message.

 **To 2zombie2function** : Maybe you could give me an idea? Or just let me have someone to talk to about it?

Over the course of the night, Stiles holds his breath another 12 times, each time pushing himself to hold it in just a little longer.

Peter doesn’t reply at all.

* * *

 

 

“Morning wonderful Alpha of mine, it’s me, your dutiful pack member Stiles, hoping for some divine wisdom from our supreme leader.” It was morning, just a few minutes past 7 on a Saturday, and Stiles had already had two coffees, a red bull and an extra dose of adderall. Which is why he was vibrating slightly while standing at Derek’s door.

“Stiles. If I let you in this house, you’re going to have to at least _try_ to be 10 times less annoying.” Derek was growling, his hair was still sticking up at the back where he had slept on it, and his eyebrows were drawn together. He pushed open the door wider to let Stiles come in all the same though, so Stiles counted it as a win.

“Thanks Alpha-Wolf-Our-One-And-Only-”

“Stiles! Did I not just say _less_ annoying?”

“Right, yes, well. The thing is, I’m kinda here for Alpha-y reasons...”

Derek had been on his way to sit on the couch, but instead stops, and turns round to look Stiles in the eye, “You’ve come here, to ask me something as an Alpha?”

It sounded kinda’ stupid, although, it shouldn’t really. Derek was the pack Alpha, he’d even been getting slightly better at it recently, and he appeared to always include Stiles in that bracket, so, yeah, this was perfectly normal, and Stiles definitely didn’t even need those extra coffees to psych himself up to be here, because, normal right? Normal.

“Yes, as an Alpha.. And I guess.. Maybe.. My.. Alpha..?” his voice went up a bit at the end, as if he couldn’t help himself say it as a question instead of a statement.

Derek, looks him dead in the eye for a moment, frozen slightly, before taking a sharp turn left and heading to a kitchen cupboard. “Would you like some green tea Stiles?”

“What?”

“I have fruit teas as well, but I can’t tell you if they taste any good.”

“You’re offering me tea?”

“I think the chamomile one is supposed to be relaxing.”

“Why are you offering me tea Derek?”

The werewolf sighs, picking up the tin kettle and filling it with water before putting it on the stove to boil.

“My mother would make people tea when they would come to here for advice as an Alpha.”

“Oh.. Right, well… Yes then, I guess I’ll try the chamomile… Have you always done this and it’s because I’ve never asked you an Alpha-question before that I didn’t know?”

“No, it’s recent.” Derek was fiddling with tea bags, gently laying their strings over the side of the two white cups he’d gotten out of a cupboard, while the kettle boiled. “Peter reminded me. He - err - encouraged me to try some of the things that my mother had done, to make being an Alpha easier.”

Derek sounded a little embarrassed, which was a revelation in itself, but also earnest.

“Has Peter been helping out more with the pack then?” Had Stiles just missed that? Had he been cut out of so many evenings that he just didn’t notice Peter moving in.

“Not to the pack. He’s been spending more time with me though.”

“I see.”

They stood in silence for a little bit longer until the kettle began to boil and Derek could arrange them their cups. Stiles felt slightly ridiculous sipping on the boiling mixture, but, it was also quite endearing: he felt like one of the pack. And really, that’s all he’d come here for.

“So, you wanted advice?”

“Well… Yes, I want to know how to feel more like part of the pack.”

“I don’t understand. You want to feel it the same way the betas do? Because, that’s simply nature Stiles, I can’t give you that.. Unless..”

“Nope! Sorry, ok, I got this wrong. I meant.. I wanted to feel more involved. You have to admit that, recently, I’ve not been very involved. I’ve not been particularly included by everyone…”

Derek makes big sigh, swallowing a large mouthful of tea, before looking Stiles in the eye.

“It’s not unnatural for a pack to want to protect its most vulnerable members” Stiles was about to burst in here, but Derek raised a hand, and continued, “when you began working with me, things were different. I had to rely on a bunch of kids to get my head above water, and there was always something right around the corner… And yes, in some ways, things haven’t wholly changed, but… I have a pack now, there’s stability here, I don’t need to use whatever warm body I can see to fight the enemy.”

Stiles chewed his lip, some of Derek’s words had cut him a little bit more than he had expected. “So, you don’t need me now you have a pack… Is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course not Stiles, you’re the best researcher we have and I wouldn’t expect your friends to stop spending time with you.”

“But, I’m just not as valuable as everyone else?”

Derek let out a deep sigh, and drank some more of his tea.

“Packs have human members, that isn’t uncommon. The fact that I allowed you to be so involved in the fighting earlier in this pack, is uncommon… The fact that your father knows about the pack and wants us to protect you, means that you getting hurt is a danger to the pack’s safety.”

“I’m a liability?”

“You’re human… I always assumed that at this point you’d have asked for the bite.”

“I don’t want it.”

“I know, and that’s alright, but it means my hands are tied right now. It’d be unfair on the rest of the pack.”

Stiles realised he had tears in his eyes, and quickly picked up his drastically cooling tea, and chugged a few gulps.

“But what can I do now?”

Derek was looking at him closely, his eyes analysing Stiles’ wet eyelashes, causing him to scowl in concentration. It was less threatening than before, Stiles had learnt that Derek’s natural expression was anger and deep distaste, but it didn’t necessarily mean trouble on the horizon.

“You’ve been spending time with Peter.”

“What!? No! I mean, yes, maybe - why?”

“You smell like him, although not very much right now…”

“Right well, there’s been a few occasions… We get left together a lot. Sometimes we talk.”

“I see… You should ask him to train you, in self defense.”

“Why him?” Stiles was starting to feel a bit embarrassed, he was pretty certain that Scott didn’t know what had happened between him and Peter - as Scott wouldn’t be able to stop himself from asking Stiles - but from the way Derek was talking, he was beginning to suspect that Derek, however, did.

“Peter… Well, he has some experience being on the periphery of a pack.”

“So, you’re intentionally shoving the two outcasts together now?”

“No. Because you’re not an outcast Stiles. But mostly because he’s trained humans in the pack before, his partner before the fire was human.”

“Oh…” Stiles felt like a bucket of water had just been thrown over him. It was as if the concept of Peter even existing before the fire-revenge-monster part of his life had never entered his head.

And a human. Peter had been a normal (ok, probably still a bit of a dick) person, with a normal relationship, with a normal person. So normal, that that person was human.

“I thought you said that humans didn’t tend to stay in the pack?”

“Yeah. But Peter was distrustful even back then” - definitely still a bit of a dick then - “and never trusted my mother to bite him, Andrew his partner that is-” Stiles had to focus very hard on keeping his breathing stable so as to not convey his reactions to this information, “-Peter always said that he’d one day be an Alpha himself and bite Andrew, and we all kinda’ just let him have it. Like I said, he was always a bit different, slightly on the edge of the pack.”

“Was he as cruel as he is now?”

Derek sighed, “I was very young, and probably always got to see the best side of him, but I know my mother spent as much time shouting at him as she did encouraging him to spend time with us. It was different then. He wasn’t angry, or broken, he was just…”

“A bit of a dick?”

“Hah! Pretty much, although I was going to say strong willed, or maybe, mischievous. All the things he is now, but without the intention to cause misery.”

“Do you think he’ll even get back to that?”

Derek’s eye flew up to meet Stiles’ own. It was only then that Stiles realised how much Derek had relaxed, and how openly their conversation had passed: now that Derek had gone rigid again, as if finally really seeing who was in front of him.

“I think it’d be unwise to hope for that Stiles, I’ve made my peace with Peter perhaps never being that man again, and it’s best that others do too.”

“But if you think that he won’t ever be trustworthy again, then why recommend him to train me?”

“Peter is trustworthy in his own way, over things he wants to do.”

“I don’t think he’ll want to train me.”

“We’ll see, I’ll ask him.”

The conversation was stilted after that, primarily because Stiles had his mind obsessively covering the revelations of Peter’s past that Derek had shared with him.

When he returned home, he had a quick meal with his dad before John went out to work, and decided to spend the night watching Battlestar Galactica.

At 12.02 he received a text.

 **From 2zombie2function:** We’ll meet next Thursday in the preserve to begin training.

 **To 2zombie2function:** ok thnx i guess.

Stiles didn’t hold his breath for a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [spoilers]  
> So, I have tagged the fic with the word 'depression' even though this may or may not be how you (or I) define depression, I think Stiles' isolation and affinity for self destruction deserved tagging.  
> Also, I tried to make the language really suffocating, like I over explained everything Stiles was doing to highlight how slow and detached everything is. Hopefully that came off well & not like I've devolved to the writing I did as a teenager. (there's a reason there's so few fics on this ao3 account).  
> Anyway, hopefully this answers some of the questions you all had about Derek and whether he knows, or will he kill Peter, and all that other stuff.
> 
> \--ok, so that's it for now. Because I initially wrote this with the intention to have the cliche in this chapter, I've already got a fair chunk of the next one written, so, the update should come quickly. 
> 
> Please leave me comments, especially if you thought the interlude was a good idea. If you didn't, don't worry, back to business next time (;


	5. “Stiles gets drunk to sleep with Peter” cliche.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so long, hence the delayed posting. Hopefully you enjoy it.  
> See the end for spoiler warnings.
> 
> Currently not beta-ed.

“Stiles gets drunk to sleep with Peter cliché." (aka. Stiles has no self esteem or boundaries)

 

Thursday comes around reasonably quickly. Stiles simultaneously obsesses and ignores it throughout the week, swinging from “OMG-THIS-IS-A-TERRIBLE-IDEA” to “there’s no point in over thinking it”.

To keep his mind on track, Stiles tries his hardest to throw himself into spending time with his friends. He was tempted to tell them about the training, specifically Scott, in the hopes that they begin including him more, but incase it goes horridly, he keeps his lips sealed for now.

Also, he has been worried about the other wolves knowing something about what had happened between him and Peter since Derek dropped some hints that it wasn’t a complete secret. So mentioning the Peter & Stiles personal time in front of them wasn’t really on his to do list.

“Hi guys, what’s up?” he called, plonking himself down onto the cafeteria bench, his shoulder knocking into Scott’s to herald his arrival, while shooting a grin at Erica who is sitting opposite him.

“Oh, nothing much” the blonde drawled, fixing him with a grin in return, “although I was musing about you not being around much.”

Scott started coughing a little, taking a deep gulp of his bottle of Sprite, before loudly joining in with, "we should have a pizza night!"

Stiles took pity on Scott, endeared slightly by his endless belief that everything can be solved by pizza. “Yeah, sure thing bro, this Friday?”

“No, pack night has moved to Friday.” Erica chimes in, causing Scott to wince, it was clear that the boy had thus far neglected to tell Stiles.

Stiles took a deep breath and plowed through: he had a plan, he was going to train with Peter, he was going to become less of a liability to the pack, and then he’d be welcomed along.

“Oh, ok, sure, Saturday then. I have the firefly movie on bluray now”.

The groans from the table were silver-lining enjoyable for Stiles, it reminded him that some things would never really change, even if other things refused to prove permanent.

* * *

 

Stiles had his game face on when he met Peter after school on Thursday. He had brought his bat with him - his weapon of choice - and had changed into his lacrosse gear.

"You should wear your normal clothes." Was the first thing Peter said to him. Stiles had been sitting in the grass (making daisy chains, whatever, it's manly if he wants it to be) in the forest clearing as had Peter instructed they'd meet in.

"What? Why? Surely that'd make training harder." Stiles chirped in response, jumping up to face the man, in a manner that rung too strongly of 'never leave your back to a predator'.

"When you fight you'll be in whatever you were wearing that day, that includes all the restrictions of your daily clothes, there's no point learning how to fight in gym clothes if that's not how you will be fighting."

Stiles nodded, trying to be agreeable. "Okay, sure, next time, regular clothes."

"Good, now, follow me."

Peter took off on a run. Stiles eeked in surprise, as for a flash of a  second it looked like Peter was going to run AT him, but true to his word, he took off back through the thicket of trees.

Stiles ran after him, his legs already aching just from trying to keep the man in sight. After he managed to find some sort of pace - a meter or so behind Peter - he tried to ignore the stress warnings his body was trying to give out and just run. After five minutes, Stiles was lagging.

"Are we going to do anything but run?" He asked through laboured breaths, his legs feeling more and more like jelly with every step.

"Focus on your breathing and not your speaking." Peter shouted back, his own body unburdened by the effects of physical exercise.

Stiles growled in response - which came out more of a wheeze than anything else - but recommitted himself to running. He was here to learn how to fight. To become less of a reliability. To be part of the pack.

Those words became his mantra after a while, every step was another word in his head. It was calming in its own way, like hovering just above consciousness, focusing only on where each of his steps would land, and those three statements.

Peter had managed to loop them around in a circle without Stiles noticing, as 20 minutes later (that felt more like 20 hours later) they arrived back in the same spot.

Stiles was about to just throw himself to the ground in exhaustion, but Peter passed him a water bottle and told him to drink it all. Exuberant, Stiles instantly twisted off the top and gulped down the liquid, planning to finish every drop right that moment. As soon as he did however, Peter lept forward to attack him, hitting away the pitiful arm that Stiles' had tried to move to make a block, and the swiped the boy's legs out from under him.

"OW! What the fuck man!" Stiles shouted as he landed on his arse.

"Get up," Peter bit out, roughly grabbing Stiles' hand, to pull him to his feet.

As soon as Stiles was standing again though, Peter went for him again. Stiles tried to side step the feet sweeping movement, but instead took a blow to the back, and fell to the ground on his stomach.

"Argh! What are you doing! I'm fucking exhausted, let me catch my breath!"

"No, get up, now."

Stiles rolled onto his back and sent Peter a glare.

"No! This is ridiculous, I'm not going to be able to do anything when I'm this shattered!"

"Well, that's not good enough."

"Since when are you such a purposeful dick? Like, this is Derek level of 'do as I say without explanation'."

Peter wrinkled his nose, like Stiles had just likened him to a piece of mold or something.

"Well, that's unflattering." With a sigh, he dropped down next to Stiles, grabbed his bag and pulled out another bottle of water and handed it to the boy.

Stiles unscrewed the bottle hesitantly, and took delicate sips from the bottle, as if it was the action of finishing the bottle that inspired such violence. Peter in returned rolled his eyes.

"When you fight, you are not going to be prepared. You are not going to be wearing the equipment you want. You're not going to have the weapons you want. Most of the time, you'll be fighting because running away would have failed you..."

"So... That's why you made me run for 20 minutes? Just so I can learn how to fight tired?"

"No, I made you run as you need to better your cardio. Running is something you will never be able to train out of yourself - you're human, you see danger, you're going to choose flight-"

"-Jeez, thanks."

"Recognising these weaknesses and knowing how to mediate them is what will make you a better fighter. You're never going to be able to take down a wolf, or whatever else we're up against in the coming months."

"What's the point of me doing this then!" Stiles shouted in frustration. He felt like Peter was hurting him on purpose, like he only said yes to training so he could taunt Stiles.

"Ughed. Would you just LISTEN for a moment." Stiles stopped, glanced at the ground in anger induces awkwardness, before nodding his head in assent.

"Right, because I do _not_ want to go down in history as being bad as my nephew at training, I'm going to spell this out to you. Your weaknesses are what make you vulnerable. Your vulnerabilities are what make you a liability. Focusing on working around those weaknesses, is what will make you safe to have around."

"...You think that'd work?"

"No."

"Fuck you."

"But, it'll make it difficult for them to argue that you shouldn't be there."

Stiles felt really quiet all of a sudden. As if his brain suddenly hooked onto the fact that Peter shouldn't be the person he was having these conversations with. Or more importantly... They shouldn't be finishing conversations that they began when fighting.. Or fucking...

"So I'm bettering my cardio."

"Yes, and you're going to practice fighting even when your lungs are aching and you're out of breath."

"Will I actually learn any fighting moves?"

"You'll learn defensive moves. You want to be fast. Fast enough that whatever is fighting you will underestimate your speed, and underestimate whatever weapons you have on you."

Stiles took a deep breath. His legs, although feeling like jelly, no longer ached, and although he still had copious adrenaline running through him, his breathing was not quite as laboured.

"Ok. Sorry. I shouldn't have assumed you were just messing me around."

"True, you shouldn't have. Although, I won't admit that the look on your face when I went for you was satisfying."

"Ughed! Jerk!"

They did a few more exercises - Peter teaching Stiles how cool down stretches worked - before Peter sent him home.

"That's it?"

"For now, we'll train for longer next time, and longer again the time after that. It'll better your endurance."

"Okay, that makes sense."

It was the first time they had been alone recently that didn't involve Peter jumping him (or, as it should be fair to say, Stiles jumping Peter) it was an odd feeling. Like the potential was all still there, but Stiles didn't really know how to actualise it. To bring it into the moment.

He was sure that Peter was aware of it too. The man hadn't touched Stiles once throughout the whole afternoon other than when he had taken him down or pulled him back up again, and those movements were so fast and refined, Stiles had barely felt them.

"Thanks. I mean, I don't really know what Derek said to you, to get you to do this... But thanks."

Peter gave Stiles a curious look, like he was analysing the boy - perhaps trying to work out the aim of Stiles' words - before he gave a rigid nod.

"Go home, I'll see you Friday at the meeting."

"You won't, I don't think I'm going to go."

"You will. It'll be fine. Go home Stiles."

"Why do you say that?" Stiles felt like he was clinging to the interaction between them, like he was trying to eek out just a little bit more. It made him feel slightly sick at himself, but he couldn't really help it.

"Because you'll go anyway. Now, go home Stiles."

"Oh, okay, but thanks, again, right, bye."

He began walking back to his jeep that he'd parked by the nearest trail. He only looked back at Peter once, the disappointment that the man wasn't looking back out at him was enough to curb the want to do it again.

* * *

 

 

That Friday Stiles did end up going to the pack meeting. He was cheered at least by Derek answering the door with a terse smile - which constitutes pretty much an enthusiastic grin from a man _that_ unfailingly gloomy - and everyone welcoming him when he came in the door.

Even Scott made a fuss of it being great that he'd arrived, and how they needed him to help with research. It was warming, and sure it wasn't quite on-the-field participation, but at least he could feel like Giles from Buffy... Or possibly Willow, before she got her powers. Hopefully not Xander.

Spike from this analogy (also known as Peter) was already there, sitting in the corner reading a book covered in leather so old it was peeling slightly. He looked up when Stiles' entered the room and offered him his own small smile. Stiles grinned back, rolling his eyes, and mouthing "I know, you were right" back him. The wider smile he received back was particularly gratifying.

"I think we're hunting a snake or insect of some kind." Derek interrupted, shoving some books in Stiles' lap. "The sheddings I saw were similar to many types of snakes."

“Gross, how long were they?”

“A good couple of feet. It was hard to tell if it was all one piece.”

“Ew, so it could be falling off it in bits?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you sure that it isn’t just a snake on the loose and some weird murderer?”

“Sure, if pet snakes were the size of tree trunks.”

"Have you ever come across something like this before?"

"Mmhh.. Not really."

"Your mother did." Peter offered casually to the group. The room went really still all of a sudden, like people weren't entirely sure how to respond to what Peter had just said.

Derek himself had spun around to look at Peter, his face a mixture of betrayal and wonder.

"When? How do you know this?"

"I was there, we had to face something like this."

"Did you fight it?"

"Some, Talia saw it off. She didn't kill it, it came down to a territorial spat more than anything."

Derek nodded, like this made sense, before his eyes darted around at the rest of them. It felt like an accusation, like they shouldn't be there to hear the conversation.

"And you're bringing this information up to help?" That was definitely an accusation. Stiles had only realised that he was holding his breath because his lungs had begun to ache. The pressure calmed him.

"Derek.." He interrupted, "...The information is helpful..."

Peter rolled his eyes, like he was vastly unimpressed how the conversation was going.

"Quite. I remember some of the details. I'll get the bestiary from home that might have more information."

Peter left, although he did not take the quiet attitude the room had taken on with him. The wolves darted their eyes at one another - clearly keen to calm their Alpha even though they were unsure what to do.

Derek, to his credit, snapped back to his default growling demeanour.

"We can't be certain that this is the same creature. Scott, Erica, come with me, we'll return to where I found the shedding, the rest of you, continue going through the texts, to see if anything else props up."

It was an odd evening, to say the least. But at least Stiles wasn't the only one left behind to do the reading this time. Although, if he was to be honest with himself, he was rather longing for the occasions when him and Peter were left together. At the very least so he could ask Peter why he'd been so disruptive... ....Or maybe, why he was being so helpful. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes.

* * *

 

The next Thursday Stiles went straight to the clearing from school, remaining in his regular clothes. He had hummed that morning over which jeans to wear ("these ones aren't so tight, and would make running easier") but in the end opted to take Peter's advice, and just wore his regular pair. If he was going to do this, he was going to do this right.

Stiles was laying on his stomach doing his homework, he arrived 10 minutes early now that he didn't run home first and get changed into his sports gear, and didn't want to seem like he was just waiting for Peter.

"Good, you took my advice on the clothing."

"Yep. Although, I really don't think I'm going to be able to run that fast in these." The jeans were very tight, Stiles suddenly regretted buying into the skinny-jeans fashion fad. To his delight though, Peter appeared to notice just how tight those jeans were. Although, delight and mortification, at this point, were about the same thing for Stiles when it came to the older werewolf.

"Follow me."

They did their run again, Peter didn't appear to be giving him much allowance for the fact he was now wearing non-athletic clothes, but at least he didn't appear to be perturbed at Stiles' lack of pace.

They ran in silence. And Stiles quickly settled into his mantra: ‘Learn how to fight, to become less of a liability, to be part of the pack.’

Thankfully his shoes - some well worn purple converse - were not completely unsuited to running on rough terrain, a fact that had probably aided him many times throughout the past year. His thighs were aching more this time though, as the restrictive nature of his jeans stopped him from being able to lift his legs properly. They weren’t running fast, Stiles noticed that Peter had considerably lowered the pace from last time, it was just that the duration seemed to be going on forever.

When they finally appeared back in the clearing, Stiles’ collapsed to the floor.

“You’re not-” Wheeze, “- gonna’ hit -” another wheeze, “-me again… Right?”

“No, I think you showed last time just how incapable you were after doing cardio.”

“Hey! We can’t … all be fuck- ... -ing wolves!”

“Shut up and drink your water Stiles.”

They spent another hour doing stretches, Stiles very vocal in his complaints about the restrictive nature of his clothes.

“There’s no point in me being flexible, if my clothes aren’t going to let me bend!”

“Stretches are good for training reflex pathways, the more supple your joints, the easier your movements when you need them.”

“How do I know if I’m supple?”

“Stiles… Just concentrate in on where you’re putting your feet.”

They also began some simple dodge moves.

“You are not going to be able to block something supernaturally stronger than you. My hand would go through your bones before you could stop it.”

“Ok, good pep talk.”

“But you can encourage movements away from yourself. If I were to throw a punch at you with my right hand, where would it naturally want to go?”

“...Through my head?”

“No, that’s where I’m _aiming_ it Stiles, where would the momentum want to take it.”

“Oh, um.. To the left.”

“Exactly, so when I do this.” Peter took Stiles’ hand and formed it into a fist, before directing it towards his own face, “You want to be stepping to the right, and knocking it to the left.” Which Peter went on to do - causing Stiles arm to knock violently to the left.

“Ok, let’s try the other way round.”

They did this for the rest of the afternoon. Peter throwing him punches from his left and right arm, and Stiles’ practising stepping and blocking. He must have been doing ok at it, as Peter had increased the speed at which he was throwing them considerably. It felt good to be doing something effective, but the cut of his jeans and the exhaustion was beginning to become unbearable.

“Ok! Ok! We need to.. we need to stop for a bit.”

“Drink some more water and rest, then we’ll do cool down stretches and you can go.”

“Phew!” Stiles called, dropping to the ground and undoing the restrictive button on his jeans. Hesitantly, he glanced at Peter, catching the man looking at him, or perhaps even more specifically, at the glimmer of flesh now available between his jeans and t-shirt.

Peter rolled his eyes in response.

“You don’t talk to me very much anymore.” The words slipped out of Stiles' mouth before he had had a chance to really think about them. 

“I don’t think we ever spoke very much Stiles.”

“No. Well, yes, in the beginning. But, we were speaking for a little while.”

“Stiles. These training sessions are for just that: training.”

“What are you getting out of them? You never do anything you don’t benefit from.”

“Is that what you’re suggesting Stiles… That I, _benefit_ from you right now?” Peter’s eyes had that dark-dangerous glint to them at that moment. The one Stiles was never certain meant he was happy or angry. At the suggestion Stiles felt himself become blushed with embarrassment, dragging along a low grade arousal.

“Yes- yes. We could. If you wanted.”

“That’s very different from what you said last time Stiles.”

Stiles’ complexion was getting ruddier by the second, he was never very good at handling topics like sex, and times of crippling embarrassment - even if the latter came up surprisingly often.

“You kissed me last time.”

“Was it your first?”

“No! Well, kinda’, in some ways.”

“Kissing doesn’t mean anything to a lot of people.”

“No, I’m not saying it _meant_ anything - look, it felt good.”

Peter hadn’t moved from his position a few metres away. It was frustrating, normally by now Stiles had elicited enough of a reaction from Peter to get him to come closer, to make an initial move. This time, he just carried on standing there, his eyes flinty and his body language rigid.

“Am I doing this wrong?”

“Yes Stiles. You definitely are. Now get up, finish your water and do your stretches.”

“Wait, where are you going?”

“Home, you can do this part by yourself.”

* * *

 

It was one of those moments when you haven’t even done something yet, and you’re already in a state of regret. Like, Stiles could feel how much this was a bad idea, and he hadn’t even knocked on Peter’s door yet, but he was here already. Peter must know he was there already. And, to be brutally honest, Stiles was already utterly smashed on cheap whiskey, so he might as well go through with it.

With a stumble, he knocked on the door. It opened mere moments later.

“Stiles, what are you doing?”

“I-I… I came here.”

“Yes. I asked why.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re hot. Fuck. I meant to say that later. No! Wait, I think you’re hot. I wanted to say that forever.”

“I think you should go home.”

“I want to come in… Please? Please can I just… I’ll be really good. I promise. Really good. Whatever you want.”

“Jesus christ. What have you been _watching_? Fine, go in there, sit on the couch.”

All things considering, it was already going considerably better than Stiles had expected. Sure, his body was quite clearly listing to the left (that or Peter had redecorated his living to be slanted) and he wasn’t completely sure where Peter was, but, he had managed to get _inside_ the apartment, and still had all his limbs.

“Drink this.”

“You’re always giving me water.”

“I legitimately have nothing to say to that.”

“Do you have more alcohol?”

“No. Now drink your water, otherwise I’ll throw you out right now.”

Stiles brought the glass enthusiastically to his face (splashing himself slightly) and began glugging it down. He kept his gaze on Peter over the glass - as if worried that he’d run away while Stiles was busy - and tried to finish it as quickly as possible. Stiles knew himself drunk, and probably slightly ridiculous, but he still had his head together. He knew what was going on, what he was there for.

“Will you sit here.” Stiles said, patting the couch next to him.

“No. I think you should lie down. I’m going to call Derek.”

“NO! Don’t call him! He’ll… He’ll tell Scott, who’ll tell my dad.”

“Well, that’s what happens when teenagers get drunk, their parents find out and are horrifically disappointed.”

“WHAT! NO!”

“He’ll probably disown you. Put you up for adoption.”

“Ok, now I know you’re being a jackass.”

“Don’t you have family in Europe? You’re probably going to be sent away.”

“I hate you. Look, just, shhh. Stop it. Just, I need to say this. Just, sit here, I’ll go on the floor.”

Stiles slid onto the floor.

“Jesus, get off the floor.” Peter kneeled down in an attempt to pull the boy back up.

“No look, it’s really comfy. I like your rug Peter. Did you buy it yourself?”

Peter was now sitting on the floor next to him, his head in his hands.

“You are ridiculous.”

“You should look at me.” Stiles was pulling Peter’s hands away from his face, and eagerly knelt next to the man and put the hands on his waist.

“Stiles, I don’t want to touch you.”

“I know you want me… You keep, _having me_ , you wanted me when you were an Alpha.” Stiles’ voice had gone all false-whisper, like they were sharing something secret.

Peter’s response was a deep sigh, a dramatic eye roll, before finally looking at the boy. “I really-really don’t.”

“Will you stop lying and messing with me.” Stiles knew he should probably stop whining, but it was hard, when he was drunk, and Peter’s hands were kinda’ on him, but wouldn’t, like, _touch_ him.   
  
“For someone so disgustingly insecure, you sure seem to have convinced yourself you’re werewolf catnip.” Peter drawled, removing his hands from Stiles’ hips and instead gripping Stiles’ wrists in front of him to stop him from getting Peter to molest him.

“I’m not.. I don’t want other.. Wait, what… ….You don’t want me?”

“No Stiles.”  It was like having a bucket of ice thrown at him. Regret and shame flooded Stiles’ system, as his body and brain started to do an emotional swing in the other direction. He felt a little dizzy from it, and tried to pull away from Peter’s grip.  
  
“For fuck’s sake. Just _sit here,_ ” Peter said, pulling him properly into his lap. “I’m going to tell you all the reasons why I don’t want you.”

“That sounds awful, I don’t want to hear that.”  
  
“I know you don’t want to hear that, but I’m going to tell you anyway, so we can put an end to this pestering and persevering you have on me.”

“I’ll go.”

“But you’d be back." Stiles didn't like the solemness of Peter's voice as he said these things. It initiated alarm bells in the boy's head. 

"So here we go: number one, I am not a good man, or a good person. I do not want to have your problems in my life, I don’t want you to turn to me when you inevitably need something. And you will, you already do.  You are needy, and time consuming and have a lot of issues that I don’t even want to contend with or think about, I don’t want that.”

Peter reshuffled Stiles’ position in his lap, but kept eye contact with the boy, “Number two, I am however, _possibly_ , trying to be a better man, as much as it disgusts me to admit, but for Derek’s sake at _least_ , I am attempting to build some kind of equilibrium here before I decide what my next move is. In this fashion… I can see that I am not the best option for you. Go find a teenager, go find a troublesome older boyfriend, go pick up a drug habit if needs be, and do a stint in rehab. All these are far better options than trying to lose yourself in our interactions. I do not have the time or the capacity for it, and I have no wish to put you in my relationship between my nephew and myself."

"Number three, And this one is a kicker.” He shook the boy a little, as if to ring home just how serious he was being, "You are a child. You are small. You are immature. You are inexperienced. You barely know yourself let alone anything else in this world. To me, that is vile, and boring and unattractive. If you were going to fight against anything else I have said already, at least take that one to heart.”

Stiles is crying steadily now, what before felt like a floating fearless state, now was heavy and fuzzy, like he wanted to leave but his body was not in a responsive enough state to coordinate it.

“But, but why did you do any of it?”

“Mainly, because I was bored. And sometimes when you’re bored, you do things that are disgusting and trivial. Much like when you went about digging up bodies in the woods.”

“I-I disgust you?”

“Most of the time, sometimes, you’re just inane. Now and again, like right now, you’re amusing in your pathetic-ness.”

It was hard being drunk and emotional, Stiles realised. Especially when the only person there is the one that is berating you, making it more awful that you’re collapsed against them, hiding your face in their chest.

“I hate you.”

“I know, you’ve told me many times.”

“I really hate you. You’re awful. And broken. And, I hate you.”

Stiles could feel himself lean into the petting Peter was doing of his hair, it felt good, comforting to the pain in his chest from being reduced so viciously.

“Are you… Are you going to fuck me now?” Stiles mewled.

Peter let out a jagged bark of laughter in response.

“Probably.”

He slid his spare hand into Stiles’ boxer, gripping at the flesh painfully, before using the angle to rock the boy against his crotch.

“I thought… I thought people trying to be good, didn’t fuck drunk people.”

“Trying and succeeding are two very different things though.”

Stiles nodded, hiccuping slightly as his breath still quivered with emotion.

He really was drunk. He knew this now as his body was numb, and even though his crotch was bumping up against Peter, he barely felt it.

Peter didn’t seem to care, focusing instead on getting the back of Stiles’ trousers down far enough that he could get both hands on the boy’s arse.

“Are you really going to fuck me?”

“I could. You couldn’t stop me.” Peter’s eyes were lit up blue with danger as he said the words, as if the prospect was exciting to him.

“No, I-I couldn’t.”

“Are you going to tell me to stop Stiles?”

The pace of Peter dragging Stiles down over his clothed cock had increased significantly. Every few drags, Peter would chance his fingers impossibly closer to Stiles’ entrance. A threat or a promise, Stiles was completely sure.

“No… No, I’d let you do whatever you wanted.”

At his words Peter growled deeply, dipping his head down, and placing his morphed-canine teeth against Stiles’ neck. His mouth gritted shut, as if he was convincing himself he really had just bitten the boy’s neck and therefore did not need to do it proper.

It was a tense moment of silence, before the man picked him up and threw him onto the sofa.

“You’re pathetic.” Peter spat, his eyes dancing excitedly over the boy’s splayed body. “I could maim you, and you’d just crawl on your knees back to me.”

“Do- do you want to?”

Peter growled again, pulling off his trousers and kicking off the black boxer shorts that had laid underneath.

“I’d stop asking me if you don’t want it to happen right this second.” Peter was pulling on his cock, his legs stock still, resisting moving any closer.

“I never know if you want me to struggle or not. You’re so confusing to me.”

“Fuck! Just _shut_ the fuck up…. Jesus fucking christ... .... _Fuck it_. Open your mouth.”

Peter straddled the boy on the couch, his own body tall enough that he had to grip the boy’s jaw and angle it upwards just so he could nudge his erection against the wet lips.

“You are incurable stupid. You’re a fucking child. So desperate to play with fire, you don’t seem to give a shit you’re about to lose a limb. Look at you. Eager for it. Nuh-uh, don’t swallow it, just feel my prick in your mouth. Just the tip. Look how big it is in your wet cunt of a mouth, I could fucking choke you. Don’t you get it boy, one wrong move and I could end you.”

Stiles was taking deep draws in from his nose, trying not to move his lips around the obtuse size of the head of Peter’s prick. He was dizzy, and a torrid mixture of scared and excited. His lips were getting bruised each time Peter’s fist rubbed against them as get continued to jerk off his erection while still placed just inside Stiles’ mouth.

“Is that what you want baby? You want me to hurt you? Want me to remind you what it means to be alive?" Peter's voice was filled with mock sweetness, betrayed by the harsh and violent edge to his tone, "Fuck, that’s it, shh-shh, stay still, don’t move, stay still and I’ll keep it right here. You like that, like how close I am to choking you, yeah I bet you do, that’s it. FUCK, that’s it, fuck, _fuck, fuccckk_.”

Peter abortively tried to pull out of Stiles’ mouth when he began cumming, meaning that a stripe of cum splatted against Stiles’ jaw before Peter dove back in between his lips and coated his tongue. Peter’s fist was tight against his lips, as if it was the only thing stopping the man from burying himself to the hilt.

Stiles’ swallowed a few times compulsively, the salted heavy cum an unusual taste to him, and his stomach a little uncertain about it being in his mouth. Thankfully after a few moments Peter moved away, letting go of Stiles’ jaw that the boy instantly rubbed in attempt to ward off the numbness that the crushing grip had caused.

He was still crying a little from earlier, but it felt more from nerves than anything else. Stiles’ tracked Peter’s movements as the man grabbed his boxers from his discarded clothes, he was afraid that the wolf might run away, or send him home. Things tended to always go a little pear shaped between them after sex.

Instead Peter scooped up Stiles’ legs and appeared to be encouraging him to lie down on the sofa.

“What-”

“Shhhhh. It’s ok.”

Peter kissed him, the man kneeled next to the sofa and kissed him. It was slow, unlike the kiss they had shared before, and Stiles’ was certain he was going to die from the feeling of Peter’s strong tongue driving surely into him, licking up against his own tongue, and cheating him from any chance to catch his breath.

Peter only moved back to give Stiles’ air, when he pushed his hands down the front of Stiles’ barely still on trousers: apparently Stiles had gained an erection at some point over the proceedings.

Stiles gasped at the rough texture of Peter’s palm against his dick’s head, juxtaposed between Peter’s lapping at the strips of cum that had hit his jaw. This was the first time that Peter had directly touched him - which also made it the first time anyone had ever touched his bare cock - and it was only the haze of alcohol and the lack of slick that stopped him from cumming straight away.

“Too - too much.” Stiles keened, his hips stuttering, but his body far too exhausted to successfully thrust forward.

“Shhh-shhh. I’ve got you.” Peter licked his palm, his own saliva wet with the cum that had decorated Stiles’ skin previously, before replacing his hand in a more fluid motion. “I’ve got you. You can cum darling, I’ve got you, you can let go.”

It was too much for Stiles’ all of it was too much, and in moments he was spilling over Peter’s hand, keening in surprise, before Peter replaced his tongue within Stiles’ mouth.

It was in the last thoughts of consciousness that Stiles’ wanted to ask the man if he still thought of Stiles’ as disgusting.

* * *

 

Stiles’ woke up in his bed, still clothed from before and his head still busy, he glanced at his window, certain that it was from there that a sound had woken him, before falling back to sleep again.

 ****  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Spoilers]  
> Warnings:
> 
> Stiles' in not sober when enaging in sexual acts with Peter. Although he did plan to get drunk with the intention of having sex, this is still dub-con.  
> Peter also has quite a serious kink at the prospect of Stiles' saying no, and Peter being able to do it anyway.  
> Also, Stiles had very little respect for boundaries himself, in some ways, he's coercing/manipulating Peter into giving him attention.  
> None of their relationship is particularly healthy.
> 
> \-------------
> 
> There you go! 4/5 done! Just one more to go! What do you think?  
> How's it going in your eyes? Please leave a comment/some feedback, it's wonderful to read.


	6. Another Interlude.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations between wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to accept the fact that this chapter would just have to be another interlude, as the conversations became too important to have, and I needed space to properly write the fifth cliche.
> 
> That's one of the problems when plot takes over a fic you wrote mainly as an excuse to write porn. /rolls eye.

 

To 2zombie2function: I remember what happened i just dnt remember how

 

To 2zombie2function: if you think I would be scared off ur wrong.

 

To 2zombie2function: I dont understand y u would say that shit to me

 

To 2zombie2function: I think about u all the time.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s on the day of his first ever _real_ hangover that Stiles realises how much he wants to tell Scott what has been happening. Too much had happened now though, too many awful twists, and too many moments that Stiles keeps packed away beneath his chest, for him to be able to just crack open that topic.

 

He probably should have told Scott what had happened that first night. All the time ago. With Peter in the woods. With the fear, and the hunting. The way that Stiles had felt as if he’d been branded. Maybe if he’d told Scott about it, he wouldn’t have obsessed over it so many times.

 

It wouldn’t have given Peter a secret power over him: as the only other person who knew it happened.

 

Maybe, Stiles couldn’t be completely sure.

 

He definitely should have told Scott when he had started flirting with Peter. Ok, flirting probably wasn’t the right word. Trying to appear sexually desirable and/or a valid sexual conquest for Peter to take advantage of. That’s probably the most accurate way to summise was it was. It felt so long ago that the two of them were sitting in Derek’s loft. Stiles shuffling on his chair, panting, trying to get Peter to touch him.

 

That’s what he was always doing. Just trying to get Peter to touch him.

 

If he had told Scott, the boy would probably have talked him out of it. Or… Or maybe Scott would have talked to him _about_ it. Got him to open up about why he was thinking this way… Why Peter of all people was appearing like a valid option. Maybe they could have fixed this rift that was tearing them apart.

 

What he did realise now though, was that Scott wasn’t really his friend now. Not like he was before. Like, they were still great bros, and had fun together. But, what they had been before was just _so close._ That now, anything short of complete devotion felt empty.

 

Stiles couldn’t stop thinking about a quote from that film called Dogma. He couldn’t completely remember it, it was like a half memory from a film playing in the background. But it was about faith, and how when you’re younger, it didn’t take much to fill you up your cup. But the older you got, the bigger your cup got, and it took more to fill it. Scott hadn’t taken anything out of his cup. He’d just stopped filling it.

 

Peter filled his cup.

 

“Fuck this metaphor.” Stiles babbled, pouring himself a glass of water and chugging it down. Thankfully his father was out, so the fact that he looked like shit didn’t matter.

 

It didn’t stop him wanting to throw up though.

 

He went back to bed.

 

\--------------------

 

To 2zombie2function: are we still gonna meet on Thursday?

 

From 2zombie2function: Yes.

 

To 2zombie2function: are we gonna to talk about stuff?

 

From 2zombie2function: No.

 

To 2zombie2function: are we ever gonna talk about stuff?

 

From 2zombie2function: Maybe.

 

To 2zombie2function: is that the maybe that means: no but I don’t want to get into it?

 

From 2zombie2function: Maybe.

 

To 2zombie2function: i never understand what you want from me

 

Peter didn’t text him back, so Stiles went about beginning his homework. It was when he found himself just staring at his phone listlessly for the third time, he gave in and text again.

 

To 2zombie2function: is there anything about me that you don’t find annoying?

 

From 2zombie2function: Maybe.

 

It wasn’t enough, but it made Stiles smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Like all best made plans, it’s when things are feeling slightly on the up that everything gets more complicated. Peter hadn’t text him back anymore since the day after their last interaction, but at least the man had said that they’d meet up like normal.

 

Normal. Meeting Peter once a week was normal now.

 

It was Wednesday night, the night before training. Stiles was supposed to be seeing Scott that evening, they had gotten all the way to setting up the game cube in Scott’s bedroom before Scott had gotten a call about a threat. When the boy was trying to wriggle out of it, Stiles finally caved, and shouted, “Look! I’m fine! I’ve been training with Peter, so like, I’m totally more equipped to come along.”

 

“Wait, what? You’ve been training with Peter? Why?”

 

“Because I want to be able to, you’know, help out. Fight the good fight. Go bump the things that go bump in the night.”

 

“Yeah but, why Peter?”

 

“Ummm, I dunno’, Derek suggested it.”

 

“Derek suggested it! What was he thinking?! I’m going to go talk to him about-”

 

“-No! Look, it made sense. Peter’s got experience training humans, and… He’s not that bad.”

 

“He only wants you to think that before he kills you and buries you in the forest Stiles.”

 

“No, I know him now. We’ve spent some time together.”

 

“So you’re saying Peter wouldn’t hurt you, given the chance.”

 

Stiles had to work _really_ hard not to think about how much Peter enjoyed hurting him. It also meant navigating this conversation with a werewolf lie detector more difficult, because the answer to that question was definitely ‘yes’ and explaining to Scott just how that kind of hurting is _different_ , well… That just wasn’t an option.

 

“He’s helping me stay alive, I think that proves something.”

 

Scott’s face was screwed up, like the concept of ‘Peter’ and ‘other’s well being’ would only make sense when added to ‘not good for’.

 

“Look,” Stiles pressed on, “Peter’s motivations aside, I’m useful now! I’ll come monster hunting!”

 

Scott wasn’t completely convinced, but he gave Derek a call, and when the elder wolf apparently vouched for the validity of Stiles’ training, he got on board with the idea.

 

This was how Stiles ended up in the position where he was traipsing through the woods, Peter to his left, and Derek ahead of him.

 

Scott had broken off with Isaac (not before making eyes at Derek about Stiles, which was not at all conspicuous, oh no, not at all.) earlier that night, but Stiles felt reasonably confident about his abilities, bracketed as he was by two wolves.

 

He’d tried to make eye contact a few times with Peter but the man mostly spoke over his head to Derek about things. It was irritating, but he did notice that each time he chimbed in with a sarcastic comment, Peter’s mouth twitched with a grin. It might have been just because of Derek’s grumpy sighing that Stiles elicited from each barb, but Stiles treasured the interaction all the same.

 

When Derek had paused suddenly for a moment, and Stiles had begun awkwardly gripping his baseball bat with nerves, Peter had grab his hand to silence him.

 

“Shhh.” The older man hummed.

 

Stiles had smiled at him, wiggling his fingers under the man’s grip, before trying to snag one of the fingers with his own.

 

Peter snorted in response. Leading Derek to turn back and shush them aggressively, to which Peter rolled his eyes at.

 

It was kind of sweet. Innocent and playful in a way that Stiles couldn’t imagine orchestrating.

 

It meant that the last thing Stiles remembered from that night, was Peter’s playful eyebrow raise in response to Stiles own lip splitting grin.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles wouldn’t describe it as waking up. As waking up normally comes with some form of awareness of your body. Like maybe the arm you’re squishing underneath you, or the fact that your eyes are closed. There’s always a feeling, a weightedness that comes with waking up. Like you’re being pressed down onto your bones.

 

That’s exactly what Stiles doesn’t have.

 

His bones.

 

Or anything really, from his body.

 

**“This is your fault Derek!”**

 

_“Peter, help me get him on the couch.”_

 

**“He shouldn’t have even been in the woods!”**

 

“We should probably make sure he’s laying flat, to keep his airways clear.”

 

**“If he dies it’s your fault!”**

 

_“We should get him under a blanket, his body temperature has dropped a lot.”_

 

“Are you guys even listening to me!” Squawked Scott so loudly, all the other wolves in the room winced.

 

Stiles just watched, slightly grossed out at the fact that he was staring at his own body. Like, sure, you can see yourself in the mirror, and maybe even on a computer screen if you’ve filmed yourself. But just, seeing yourself. Lying there passively, as if what is supposed to be your body, isn’t. It makes you feel slightly ill.

 

Stiles is pretty certain that if he was actually attached to his stomach, he’d want to vomit right now.

 

“Scott-” Derek was scowling and sighing at the same time, with an angry but tired look on his face. The pure normalcy of it grounded Stiles for a second. “-We need to focus on finding out what happened.”

 

“We know what happened, you told him he could come out with us tonight, and he got hurt.”

 

“Look, Scott-”

 

“-No, you look Derek.”

 

“If you would just shut up for a second,” Peter interrupts, “we need to put together a plan for what we do next. Things like getting Deaton here, finding out how long this will last, will we need to find an excuse for Stiles’ absence… Or do we tell his father.”

 

“Of course we tell his father! Peter, I don’t think you should even be in this conversation. It’s your fault he’s hurt!”

 

Peter growls at that, standing up suddenly and taking a step towards Scott, “If you and that child-” the man gestured violently towards Isaac, who flinched slightly at the action “-hadn’t swanned off to try and deal with this on your own, this wouldn’t have happened.”

 

The sheer oddity of Peter shouting was only eclipsed by Stiles investment in working out what had happened.

 

“I HAD to go ahead, I needed to get this sorted before Stiles could get there.”

 

“Funnily enough, we had actually formed a plan _with_ Stiles on how best to deal with this. That didn’t include you poking a fucking hex box by yourself!”

 

“You think it would have been better if we listened to Stiles, and let HIM poke it? He’d probably be dead!”

 

“I think I’d at least be dealing with the fall out of _his_ idiocy, instead of yours and all your self righteous guilt for almost killing your best fucking friend.”

 

It was strange that Peter was the person making the most sense right then.

 

In fact, everything was really strange for Stiles watching this. Firstly, the whole not being attached to his body thing, but he was trying not to focus on that. Instead he thought about how he hadn’t been there for many of the more intense screaming matches between the wolves in a while. And perhaps due to his apparent invisibility - or lack of corporal-ness - he got to see up close and personal how the wolves were squaring off to each other in a way he never really got to see or understand when he was actually in the room.

 

Derek was standing in the epicenter, his back to no one however. His eye constantly on Scott, even though most of his attention was on Peter. And Peter, well, the man was almost wolfed out. Something that Stiles hadn’t seen in awhile… Seeing how even in sex the man kept his humanity intact, it was strange to see him so angry about something. Stiles couldn’t stop staring at how Peter seemed to be guarding his passive body though. It felt important… Or at least Stiles wanted it to be important.

 

The teen couldn’t be sure, but if he was attached to his body, he was sure he’d have goosebumps at that moment.

 

Scott though, he was almost out the door. He was itchy, and twitching in his movement, his eyes constantly flicking to Stiles body, and then looking at Derek, Peter, or Isaac, as if seeking council. As if one of them was supposed to come in and help say the things he was thinking.

 

“That’s my job, you dickhead.” Stiles said… Only just realising that he could think about saying something, but it made absolutely no sound whatsoever.

 

“Enough.” Derek bit out.

 

He stepped forward and put his hand on Peter’s arm. Peter looked like he was going to throw the younger man off, but after a second of eye contact ‘conversation’ between the Hales the older man nodded, and lowered his eyes. In a blink, they were back to their regular blue.

 

“I’m not leaving Stiles here with him.” Scott said, pointing at Peter, “Stiles knew something was up with Peter, a few weeks ago and we didn’t listen. He’s probably the one who has done that.”

 

“You’re an idiot.” Said Stiles, to himself.

 

“You’re an idiot.” Said Peter, with a sigh, which cheered Stiles up a little. And at least Peter appeared to be back to his usual level of acerbic barbs, and no longer shouting.

 

“Fine.” Derek interjected, “I’ll stay here with Stiles’ body, but you should still go Deaton’s.”

 

“And Stiles’ father?” Peter interrupted.

 

Scott made a grimace with his face, Derek squinted in anger like Peter had just insulted his honour, when really he'd just asked a difficult question. “Nothing, for now.”

 

“The Sheriff wants-” Scott began.

 

“Let’s just wait. Maybe Stiles will be up and walking around in an hour. We don’t know. Let’s not stress the man out more than he needs. Deaton should look at Stiles first, and that’s final.” Scott looked like he was going to fight Derek’s decision, he looked at Isaac, obviously hoping the boy was going to back him up, but the slighter wolf was just staring at the floor.

 

“Fine!” Scott said with a huff, “But as soon as Deaton’s done, I’m going to Stiles’ dad and coming clean.” Before storming out the flat.

 

Stiles watched Derek walk up to his body - the one on the couch - and pick up his arm that had fallen off the side. It looked really weird, to see his body being moved like that. Suddenly the urge to look down at his arm to see if he could feel anything came over Stiles. But when he looked down, there was nothing there.

 

“I’m not even here.” His head supplied.

 

But, that couldn’t be right, he didn’t even have head.

 

He wasn’t there at all.

 

And with that terrifying thought, Stiles’ consciousness went out.

 

* * *

 

  


“It’s probably for the best the Sheriff knows.”

 

And like that, Stiles was back again. He couldn’t help but look down, and this time he had the vestiges of a body. He could move his arm, walk, and even appeared to be somewhat rooted to the floor, as if bound by gravity. But he also felt translucent, like he could see through himself. And then he went to take hold of the kitchen counter, his hand went right through it.

 

“Ok, deep breaths Stiles,” he coached himself, “don’t want to freak out again and lose consciousness.”

The threat of being overwhelmed - of truly thinking about the fact that he wasn’t connected to his body - was just there on the periphery of his thoughts.

 

Instead he focused on his surroundings.

 

It was still dark outside, but now there was that pre-dawn lightness to sky, that told Stiles that enough time had passed during his absence.

 

“It probably is for the best sheriff knows for now, but it’ll just make everyone’s lives harder in the long run.”

 

Stiles turned towards the sofa. His body wasn’t there anymore, instead it’d been moved to Derek’s bed. In his place was the two Hale men. Although sitting next to each other, they weren’t touching, in fact, they’d obviously made a conscious effort to stick to each side of the seating arrangement.

 

“Well, maybe Scott has a point. Maybe Stiles shouldn’t have been there tonight.” Derek didn’t sound angry, in fact, if Stiles thought about it he didn’t tend to sound angry anymore, when compared to how much he used to anyway. He did sound tired though.

 

“I don’t think it works that way.”

 

“Why not? He’s human. He’s not trained, he’s too vulnerable.”

 

“You can’t just close pandora’s box.”

 

“We’re not asking him to forget everything.”

 

“Well, you obviously are. He lived this life for a year, everyone he knows now is a wolf, or has risked their lives for one… You push him away, he’ll just get more creative in how he’ll get himself hurt.”

 

Stiles was frozen, he couldn’t believe his ears. Peter was sticking up for him. Well, he was slightly insulting him, but, he was making the argument Stiles had been trying - and failing - to make for months now.

 

Derek sighed again, “I don’t like it when you make sense.”

 

Peter let out a warm chuckle. “Mmmh, I thought that might happen.”

 

“If Stiles ever wakes up, I guess I’ll have to think some more on his role for the pack.”

 

“Talk to him about it. Scott too. The little upstart’s trying to accept you as Alpha - which is working - but he keeps treating Stiles like he’s not part of the pack.”

 

“Is Stiles part of the pack though?” Stiles felt a little shattered from Derek’s question, the only thing keeping him together, was the fact that Derek sounded so conflicted when he said it. Like he honestly wasn’t sure.

 

“Well….” Peter paused, before leaning forward and picking up a glass from the coffee table beside them. It was filled with a rich brown liquid, and Peter swilled the glass a few times before taking a mouthful of it, “...he’s as much part of the pack, as I am.”

 

“What does _that_ mean?” Shouts Stiles into air.

 

“And what does that actually mean?” Repeats Derek.

 

“Thank you!” Quips Stiles.

 

Peter swills his glass again, looking at it’s contents with a frown, before knocking it all back.

 

“It means you’ve got an unconventional pack. Some of them are the wolves you bit, some of them are wolves you’ve inherited. Some of them are just human kids who happen to be savvy enough to go along for the ride. And then there’s me… Your uncle. Your ex-Alpha. Your closest, and least trustworthy ally.” Peter put the glass down to punctuate his monologue.

 

Stiles suddenly realised he was being given privy to a very private conversation between the wolves. One they’d obviously started before, but had never resolved.

 

He forgave himself for his impoliteness, seeing how he didn’t even know if he was physically able to leave.

 

“You’re either un-trustworthy, or an ally. You can’t be both.”

 

“True. Although, that means you have to decide which one I am.”

 

“I don’t trust you.”

 

“Ah, well, there you go.” Peter didn’t appear particularly flustered by that assertion. Which either confirmed Stiles’ suspicion that this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, or confirmed the fact that Peter truly was heartless.

 

Derek looked like he wanted to chew out his own tongue than carry on speaking.

 

All the same, the younger wolf opened his mouth again.

 

“But I am trusting you,” He looked over at Peter, who had only tilted his head to the side in response, “that’s what I’m doing. I’m… I’m turning to you for advice, and you’re… Helping me.”

 

“I could be leading you astray.”

 

Derek snorted in response, “I know. That’s what I’m scared of.”

 

Peter just nodded, getting up off the sofa and walking towards the counter top where Stiles was standing. Stiles suddenly was scared that Peter could see him, before realising that’d be a great result.

 

“Hello?” He said tentatively.

 

Peter, however, just walked past him, picked up the bottle of whiskey that was tucked behind the toaster and returning to the coach.

 

Maybe Stiles should try touching one of them. He was a little scared to try it however, incase he accidently fell into them or something.

 

“What about Laura?”

 

There was a sound of a crash, of glass breaking on the floor. When Stiles spun round to look, he saw the broken shards of the glass Peter had been drinking from before, now broken at his feat.

 

It felt like all three of them were just staring at those broken pieces of glass. As if they could reveal to them what had just happened.

 

Finally, Peter broke the spell. “What do you mean?”

 

Derek’s hands were now balled up into fisted on his thighs, and there was an inhuman glow to his eyes. “You know what I mean Peter… ...Laura. How… ...How can I trust you, after Laura.”

 

Peter had gone deathly still. All his limbs looked rigid, as if he was expending a lot of energy not to move them. Stiles felt like all the air in the room had been replaced with something heavier and colder.

 

“As you said, you’re already trusting me-”

 

“-Peter-”

 

“-No let me finish. It’s obvious this isn’t actually about trust.” Stiles almost wanted to roll his eyes at the fact that Peter was falling back into his usual snark-infused tone of voice, and if he wasn’t so riveted to what was happening, he would have remembered it wouldn’t matter if he did it anyway.

 

“What do you think it’s about then?”

 

“Forgiveness.”

 

At the word, Derek shot up with a hiss, putting some difference between them.

 

“What you did, _can’t_ be forgiven!”

 

“I know.”

 

“Then why _say_ that!?”

 

“Because that’s what you’re asking about.”

 

Derek was now pacing by the side of the couch.

 

“No! No I’m not, I’m asking… I’m asking if you… How am I supposed to trust someone who did that?”

 

Peter has a perfect mask on his face. If it wasn’t for the broken glass on the floor, Stiles would almost wonder if he was affected by the conversation.

 

But there was a silence between them, one that belied  _something._

 

Something that becomes apparent when Peter begins to speak “Derek..” And his voice sounds wrecked.

 

“Are you trying to tell me you take it back?”

 

“Derek, please.”

 

“Just tell me you take it back, that you regret it. That you regret killing here.”

 

“Derek, I need you to-”

 

The light of dawn was now peeping through the windows, turning the jet black sky into a navy blue horizon.

 

“I need you to tell me-” Derek walks straight up to Peter, and Stiles is so certain he’s going to see the wolf punch Peter in the face. Instead, he falls to his knees in front of his uncle, hands gripping at the material of Peter’s trousers, “-I need you to tell me you wish she was alive.”

 

“Of course.” Peter says, gently putting a hand to his nephew’s face. “Of course I wish more of our pack was alive.”

 

Derek lets out a deep sob at that.

 

“I-” And Peter sighs this horrible sad sigh, that does nothing but make Derek whine a wolf’s sorrow. “-I didn’t want to use her memory to manipulate you into trusting me…”

 

Derek isn’t looking at him, but he just nods.

 

“To be honest, I was a coward. Because I knew I couldn’t lie about it to you.”

 

“I can’t look at you without thinking about her death.”

 

Peter’s fingers visibly tensed in Derek’s hair, before he resumes petting him.

 

“Sometimes I can’t look at myself.”

 

There is more silence in the room. From the angle Stiles’ is at, he can’t be certain that he can see Derek crying. But from the sympathetic gestures that Peter is making, he can assume.

 

Finally Derek gets up, dragging himself away from Peter so he can grab the whiskey bottle. He takes four hard pulls of the bottle, before handing it to Peter, and collapsing back into the chair next to him. Peter follows suit, drinking some more, before putting the bottle back down.

 

It is noticeable that the two of them are sitting closer now.

 

“How am I supposed to see you as anything else?” Derek asks.

 

“The same way I don’t see you as the toddler I looked after when you were three. The same way I don’t see you as the wolf who killed me when I was Alpha…” Derek’s face is crumpled in displeasure at those juxtaposing aspects. “And the same way as I don’t see you as the chink in our armour, that let the Argents in our house.” It’d be wrong to say that there’s no bitterness in Peter’s voice, but the majority of it is positioned at the name Argent.

 

“Are you saying I’m just as bad as you?” Derek asks, hopeful in a way that belies a crushing sense of self doubt.

 

“No Derek.” Peter says with a sigh, “Although it would make my life a lot easier if I could convince you to see it that way.”

 

“But… You’re at least saying, that you’re different now.”

Peter shrugs. “I’m not going to pretend to you that there’s nothing left from who that man was… I’m not going to pretend that that desire for power, for revenge won’t always be there… But - that screaming monster filled with pain. An omega wolf, wounded, looking for power to heal; desperate to make a new pack to help cure him… For my own sake, I hope he never returns.”

 

Derek nodded at that, his eyes closing for a minute.

 

“I think I’m going to get some sleep.”

 

“That seems wise.”

 

“I told Scott that I wouldn’t leave Stiles’ body alone with you.”

 

Peter snorts at that remark, and Derek opens one eye at him.

 

“Well, on that count. I better head home.” Peter says with a smirk, getting up and heading towards the door.

 

“Are you scared he won’t wake up?”

 

Peter’s eyes look over to where Stiles body is supine, breathing gently in a deep magical sleep.

 

“He’ll wake up.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“He tenacious that way. He’d have made a good wolf.”

 

It’s Derek’s turn to snort at that remark.

 

“Don’t let Scott hear you say that.”

 

“I don’t endeavour to make Scott privy to any of my thoughts on Stiles.”

 

“I guess our next late night conversation will be about him then?” Derek said, slightly earnestly all of a sudden.

 

Peter rolls his eyes. “It’ll be a mundane conversation. Good night Derek.”

 

“Night Peter… ...Peter?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Come back here tomorrow. Early. I need my pack here to talk about how we’re going to deal with this situation.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Stiles’ vision goes black again after Peter closed the door to the flat. He’s not completely sure which aspect of that evening was the one that pushing his consciousness into blackout, because there were too many revelations to count.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has an entire beta plot about Derek & Peter's relationship. And I only kinda' regret it. 
> 
> The next chapter will start with Stiles still being ghostly, and the hijinks that entails.
> 
> Tbh, I just want all the Peter & Derek feelings trying to sort out their issues. It's something I never get to read in fics.  
> \-----
> 
> Kudos & comment please. (:


	7. Magical Intervention Cliche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles adventures as being invisible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this chapter out. It's a bit longer than normal, clearly influenced by the more descriptive writing style I've picked up in my other fics.
> 
> Really happy with where it went though. Check out the tags for new warnings, or see end for explaination.

##  “Something Magical Happens Which Leads To Stiles & Peter Getting It On” Cliche

  
  


Stiles comes into consciousness a handful of times over the next day, catching snapshots of conversations each time. The first has him catching the tail end of the pack meeting that Derek called, that included more snarling than he was sure anyone appreciated. By the end however, at least they seemed to have come to some conclusions as what they were going to do next. His body was still on the bed, and Stiles wondered if Derek had slept next to it. Surely that would have been too morbid.

 

Around that time he realised that he hadn’t tried the really obvious thing of trying to ‘get back in’ his body, and slipped by Scott scowling at Derek in hopes of trying to re-engage with his physical form. Unfortunately, not only did it not work, but the action of getting up close and personal with his uninhabited flesh had triggered another conscious black out.

 

When he returned the second time the only person who was in the room was Isaac. This instantly worried Stiles, as the pompous young man was staring literal daggers at Stiles’ body. As if it’s very presence physically disgusted him. Scott’s voice was wafting in from just outside the door, and it was clear after a minute that he was on the phone and not planning on coming inside any time soon. Stiles however couldn’t stop himself from keeping an eye on Isaac.

 

“Oi.. Fuckface - how about you chill?” Stiles shouted unhelpfully, when Isaac actively wrinkled his nose in response to something about Stiles that he was staring at.

 

“To be honest, I don’t like you much either, but… This is just plain rude.” Stiles huffed, looking over at the door where Scott could still be heard, hoping the boy came in soon to interrupt whatever - clearly awful evil plotting - Isaac was up to.

 

Ten or so minutes later and finally he did. Not that is appeased Stiles much, as he had to watch the truly sickening transformation of Isaac’s expression from: abhorrence and disgust to, open and hopeful. 

 

“Yeah, you two faced dick.” Stiles grumbled to himself, gaining confidence in his speaking, since it was so obvious that no one could hear his dialogues, “Scott will see you eventually.”

 

Scott didn’t however, and about an hour into listening to the Scott & Isaac Best Friends For Life bonding session, Stiles found himself fading out. This time however, he didn’t really mind. 

 

The rest of the day Stiles when came back in a few more times, there was often an assortment of guardians at his bedside: Erica and Boyd, Derek himself, sometimes the whole pack (minus Peter), updating one another of their findings. At first Stiles had greedily listened to every detail he could grasp at first, but something about being spoken  _ about  _ instead of  _ to  _ kept triggering his conscious blackouts.

 

Finally he set upon trying to wander away from his body, or at least trying to put as much distance between his conscious self and his physical self as he could. This had mixed results, although he could walk as far as he’d like, he would feel himself get weaker as he’d go. His body would become more translucent, and his grasp on the concept of having a form lessoned. This inevitably came with him blacking out, only ‘waking’ again beside his body.

 

He was getting better at it though, and by the late afternoon he could make it as far as the police station without blacking out. Seeing his father however hadn’t really helped matters though, and had mostly made him incredibly sad and guilty that the man looked such a wreck.

 

“Sorry dad,” Stiles whispered at the man who was on the phone talking to some colleague or another, while frantically browsing the internet under the term ‘magical coma’. Stiles hadn’t lasted very long after that.

 

When he popped back into the apartment to find his room mates to be Scott and Isaac, he left again pretty quickly. 

 

Stiles had been ‘walking’ (floating? Flying? Coasting? It was best not to think about it to be honest) for about five minutes before he really paid attention to where he was going. Another ten minutes later and he was only just admitting to himself he was heading to Peter’s house. 

 

The teen felt a little bit bad as he lurked outside the building, the last time he’d been there Peter hadn’t been particularly enthusiastic about letting him in (Once he  _ got in _ , well, that was another matter) and it felt pretty unsavoury of him to take advantage of his predicament this way. Stiles skulked a while making up his mind about whether he should go in or not.

 

Peter’s apartment was on the ground floor of his building, and had its own door that wasn’t linked up to the communal entrance hall. Stiles knew this from when he last ‘visited’ Peter, and in hindsight, it was probably the only reason he’d managed to get in at all.

 

Stiles was distracted from his train of thought however from the voice he could hear drifted out a window tucked around the corner. Carefully he slipped through the wall into Peter’s apartment building (forcing himself not to think too much about matters like lack of corporality, and what it must feel like to pass through solid walls) and found himself back in the living room he had been in the week previous. 

 

It looked the same, even with his memory still being hazy. The worn Navajo rug still took up the majority of the floor, with only some of the stained oak flooring peaking out around the edges of the room. The majority of the furniture was a rich teak, and the couch that dominated the room was a tan leather that looked softer than Stiles could remember it actually being. 

 

In reflection, it wasn’t a very ‘Peter’-esque room. Prior to being in the space, if Stiles had been asked what Peter’s house looked like he’d probably described some kind of supervillain lair: all mod cons, immaculate white furniture, sleek chrome finishings and probably blood red splatterings on the wall. He’d seen the kitchen the first time he had been to the house - although that time he was mostly acquainted with the kitchen wall, floor & ceiling - but it was a snug little room that had given away little about the rest of the house. Even now though, he hadn’t even made it past the living quarters.

 

_ “Like a dog without a bone…”  _ The voice of Peter Hale cut through Stiles all out nosing through the room, the lyrics to quite clearly some kind of dad rock song catching Stiles’ ear.

 

“Was that a fucking dog joke?” Stiles snapped.

 

_ “An actor out on loan... Riders on the storm”  _ Peter’s acapella continued, clearly following a tune that only he could hear.

 

Stiles let out a trill of laughter and followed the sound, slipping through what was obviously the door into Peter’s bedroom, and then quickly again into what was the ensuite bathroom.

 

The teen paused when steamy room was visible to him, his breath catching in his throat when he saw the shining, wet, back profile of Peter in the shower. Stiles was certain he’d caught a lot glimpses of Peter naked over the past few years: a handful of post transformation shifts where his clothes had been a victim of a more tenacious fight, and their most recent trysts had supplied ample opportunities to see nearly every chunk of Peter bared. But there was something very different about getting the absolute freedom to just  _ look  _ at the naked man, when he was unaware and unconcerned with shielding himself.

 

“I should really feel more guilty about this.” Stiles said in a half whisper, eyes trained on Peter’s head, to see if there was any sign that the man could hear him.

 

Instead Peter just carried on washing, scrubbing suds in his chest, underarms and neck, and quietly singing the chorus line of whatever song he had previously been belting.

 

Carefully Stiles edged forward, trying to keep his non-corporeal body out of range of any solid object that would intersect him, but positioning himself of getting a better look of Peter’s front. 

 

Finally when the man leaned down to pick up a bottle of shampoo from the floor of the shower - giving Stiles a quick view of a truly  _ breathtaking  _ angle of Peter Hale’s arse - and the wolf’s profile shifted enough to the left that Stiles could get a decent look at him from the front too.

 

“Riders on the storm.” Peter sang again, slightly mournful in tune, which sounded accurate for whatever classic rock melody he was replicating. 

 

Peter’s cock was soft, but still plump, long, and shrouded with dark wet hair. Soapy rivulets dripped down the man’s pecs from where he was washing his hair, nestling in the man’s pelvic hair, and sliding down the line of his cock. 

 

“Wow… You look beautiful.” Is all Stiles could say, his eyes absorbing everything he could. “You look like a stallion, or like… Some commercial for men’s aftershave.”

 

Peter’s washing movements allowed the water to start running down his front instead, which had a steady course of water running along the man’s cock. Unsurprisingly, it grew under the pressure.

 

“Ok, a seriously fucking gay men’s aftershave. Something called Pure Man, Man Scent for Men Who Like Men.” Stiles conceded.

 

The teen really hadn’t seen many  _ actual  _ men naked. Ever since he’d been taking a serious walk up the kinsey scale - prompted by Peter’s crass actions all that time ago - he’d been careful to never be caught looking at any of his male peers. And sure, he’d watched gay porn ( _ a lot of gay porn _ ) but it was different when you got to just look at someone in front of you.

 

“Sometimes I think you’ve ruined me for other people.” Stiles whispered, watching Peter drag some of suds down into the grooves of his groin. Soaping up the base of his cock and pushing the suds back behind his bollocks. “Although seeing you look so… human, it’s weird. I feel like I’ve been building you up into this unfathomable being in my head. And yet here you are. Human, beautiful, singing cheesy rock songs in the shower.” 

 

Peter had opted against jerking off apparently, as he had let got of his now half mast erection, and was rinsing the soap from his body. Stiles nodded again - mostly to himself - like he was deciding to finally give Peter some privacy, and slipped out of the bathroom again.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles spent the rest of the day stalking Peter. It made him feel more at rest, just watching the man go about his day. The teen couldn’t get over just how normal Peter was. The first thing the man had done when he got out the shower was sort through his laundry, setting aside his whites and then a selection cool blues and greens. Stiles dutifully followed him through the living room, towards the front door but turning left into the kitchen instead. There was a second door in the little kitchen that lead into a pantry come laundry room - which explained why such a large flat had had such a pokey kitchen - and Stiles watched as the man loaded up the two machines he owned with the laundry, and filled up the drums with different types of washing liquids.

 

“Huh… I guess I never really thought of you washing clothes before.” Stiles said into the ether, “And you’re so… Thorough at it. You have two machines, one just for whites! And like… I think your colours each have their own fabric softener. Do you take this much care with all the things you own?”

 

Peter, of course, did not answer, and instead carried out his chores. Stiles trailed after him, commenting on the quirks of Peter’s behaviour as he went. He watched Peter browse his clothes, changing his mind over whether he’d wear a burgundy or a grey v neck jumper, each of them looking equally soft. 

 

“Are you even going out? It’s strange that you’d care so much what you’re wearing just for being in the house.” Something about being around Peter calmed him, he felt more solid in his surroundings, like he could relate to the objects around him better.  The fear of accidentally being split in half by a stray end table, no longer such a worry. While Peter selected the socks he wanted to wear, Stiles clambered on the bed, relating to the mattress in a way that had him laying on it. He was quite pleased with himself, and looked up at Peter as if to attain praise from him at Stiles’ achievement. The teen was a little disappointed that he clearly wasn’t going to get any, but was quickly distracted by Peter stripping off his towel.

 

“Wow, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing you naked.” Stiles monologued.

 

“I wish I could touch you, although, if I did, you’d know I was here… And might not let me.”  Stiles knew he was compartmentalising the part of himself who knew he was doing a Bad Thing™, but he justified it to himself, “Nearly all of our interactions have been… Messy. This is pretty much normal, in fact, it’s mutually beneficial. I get to see you, and you don’t have to deal with the fact that I want to.” That line of thought made Stiles a little sad too, almost ruining the moment Peter tucked his dick into his boxers. Clingy grey boxers at that, made from what was probably a very high calibre cotton. 

 

“I’m going to remember you like clothes… Or textiles. I’m going to buy you a textile test booklet from Bed, Bath & Beyond. As like.. A remedy. I think you’d like that.”

 

The rest of Peter’s evening was taken up writing a letter to an old school friend who now lived in Spain: Stiles hadn’t managed to read the beginning of the letter as Peter must have written it a few days prior, and the paper already sat in an envelope, but he watched him write the remainder. Commenting on his word choices, how pretty his penmanship was, and making guesses about what Peter’s relationship with this man must have been like.

 

“It’s not so bad now, being invisible.” Stiles mused, as he watched Peter get into bed. “Earlier I was worried I’d get bored, but really it’s like I’ve been given the day off to watch all of my favourite TV show.” 

 

Peter stripped off his clothes he had only put on a few hours previous and put them in his washing basket. His hands paused at his boxers, before he decided to take them off too. Stiles, who had been hovering near the window, watched with interest. 

 

Peter got on the bed, pushing the covers aside giving his legs some space to be spread in a V in front of him. The man brushed his hands up and down his thighs a few time, coasting close to the grooves of where his thighs met his groin. The stimulation help his dick stiffen, the appendage that had hung down over his balls curving to the side as it filled with blood. A few times Peter purposefully let his fingers grace his cock, or his balls. He slipped slightly lower on the bed, and moved his cock up so it laid - now at least a semi - on his stomach. 

 

Stiles was so excited to watch, that he moved quickly to the bed, trying to work his awkward not-real limbs so they moved  _ on to _ the bed, opposed to simply  _ through  _ it. Finally when he managed to get his knees up, he climbed on at speed.

 

Peter froze then however, his body going rigid still, and his eyes swiveling to the other side of the bed. If it wasn’t for the fact that Peter was looking just slightly to the left of where Stiles had actually positioned himself, Stiles was have been certain that Peter could see him proper.

 

There was a tense silence in the room, and Stiles watched as Peter let his eyes go supernatural blue to scan that area. His teeth began to protrude from his lips slightly, as he shifted more to allow himself to more fully assess his surroundings. Stiles watched with wonderment as he got a close up view of Peter on-edge, scenting the area.

 

After a few minutes of nothing, Peter finally relaxed. Obviously convincing himself that whatever he had sensed was either not there, or at least not a threat.

 

Stiles gently removes himself from the bed, trying not to disturb whatever film was apparently separating him from the material world. ‘You’re sacrificing your chance to get into your own body again, just to watch Peter Hale jerk off,’ he reprimands himself, not making any move to change his actions any way. 

 

Slowly Peter returns his hand to his prick, this time taking the uncut covering and dragging it backwards and forwards over the head a few times. The cock is quickly straining against his hand. The wolf varies his hand movements a few times, from cupping the dick and thrusting up into the grip, to using one hand to massage his balls while pulling on the erection in juxtaposition.

 

Stiles was transfixed, it was strange. He was mentally aroused and enchanted in what he was seeing, but his body didn’t feel aroused. As if he was very aware he didn’t actually have a dick to jerk off. He really wanted to touch Peter though, even if his hand would just go through the man, he wanted to get his hands on him. To mark him in some way. Maybe just slide his hands up Peter’s thigh, or push his fingers into where Peter’s slit was leaking precum. 

 

Peter was groaning now, his face more expressive and soft than it was whenever he was getting off in Stiles’ presence. Stiles soaked it up too, collecting all the hidden versions of Peter he didn’t normally get access to.

 

The man was clearly getting close, he had moved to just dragging his foreskin backwards and forwards over his cock head, his spare hand rubbing up and down his thigh. Stiles had to concentrate all his energy on not moving forward, and instead on staying still. His resolve almost broke when Peter began speaking to himself,

 

“Yes, that’s it. Fuck yes, that’s it. That’s it.” His words were half whispered, and were obviously connected to whatever he was fantasing about.

 

“Please be thinking about fucking me.” Stiles said out loud, “please be thinking about all the stuff we’ve done together.”

 

“That’s it, that’s it.” Peter continued, “FUCK!” 

 

Peter’s stomach was tensing then, and he started thrusting up into his hand at the same time.

 

Stiles though, was so excited that he took a few steps forward, but in his enthusiasm, he some how manages to materialise for long enough that he knocked over small table and its breakable contents. 

 

Peter, halfway through cumming, whipped his eyes open and clearly stared  _ right at Stiles  _ no question whatsoever that he can see the boy . 

 

“Stiles!” He said, “Fuck, fucckk-” however slamming his eyes shut again as the cum started shooting out from his cock and over his hand.

 

And like that, Stiles’ vision went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings [spoilers] -
> 
> Stiles is invisible and abuses that position to spy on Peter. He justifies it to himself in a not healthy way. In particular he watches Peter in the shower, jerking off, as well as butting into his life. 
> 
> ___
> 
> Thank you everyone who has stuck with this fic! One more chapter to go!!!  
> Please comment & kudos, it helps writers feel connected (:


	8. Final Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We found out some more about what happened to Stiles, and finally see some Peter POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was pretty determined to just straight up finish this fic, since it is my oldest and longest running one.  
> But just too much 'content' and conversations that I had been putting off had to be written.
> 
> Originally this was gonna be 5 chapters from Stiles' POV and 1 from Peter's, but since Stiles got 7 from his POV, there just ended up being sooo much I wanted Peter to be able to do, so he's getting two now.

 

Peter stormed to Derek’s apartment without thinking about the fact that he’d put on nothing more than a pair of sweatpants and a parka jacket. When Erica answered the door she whistled and cocked an eyebrow, “did someone order a stripper?”

 

Peter would normally appreciate the banter, but he was too angry to entertain it.

 

“Is Derek in?”

 

She moved out the way and Derek was already up out of his seat with a frown on his face.

 

“What-”

 

“-Stiles is here.”

 

All three of them looked at the listless body still lying on Derek’s bed.

 

“Yes, we haven’t moved him.” Derek answers.

 

“No, Stiles is _here_. He appeared in my apartment. Only for a moment, before vanishing a second later.”

 

Derek looks around the room, Peter smells the warring chemical reactions of Derek’s feelings. Confusion, suspicion, and then curiosity. Since he had been bonding with his nephew - his Alpha - it had been easier to pick through the man’s emotions. Akin to how Peter was able to when Derek was but a child.

 

“Stiles,” Derek says loudly. The answer is nothing but silence.

 

“Sti-illleeeesss!” Erica calls, looking around.

 

“You’re sure you saw him?”

 

“Derek, this is not something I would bother to waste my time on playing games!” He bit out in annoyance. Derek was scenting him, trying to work out why he was so annoyed, what had him so riled. They may have been becoming closer, but Peter wasn’t about to divulge. They had a tenuous relationship as it was, he didn't want to explore the topic of his and Stiles sexual exploits. He was also unwilling to admit how... transgressed it had left him feeling.

 

 _Some would say that is just._ Peter however was never a big believer in karma, and stood by his anger.

 

By the time all the pack had arrived Peter has recounted the clipped details of what had happened six times already.

 

“Why did he appear to you?” Scott growls at him, accusation ripe in his tone.

 

Peter can taste the subtle fluctuations in the room, Derek and Erica’s hearts race a little bit quicker. Their scent spiced with conceit. Scott is just blood orange angry, and it’s as bitter as it is raging.

 

“Now’s not the time for that.” Derek intervenes, trying to curb their fight.

 

Erica has gone back to shouting Stiles name intermittently. Nearly everyone is ignoring her, save Boyd.

 

“What are we supposed to do instead then?” Scott swivels to Derek, not letting Peter be at his back proper.

 

“ _Stiii-illlleeesss!_ ”

 

“We have a lead now. This is supernatural, not a regular coma. Stiles can contact us.”

 

“ _Stiii-illllesss!”_

 

“If we believe _him_.”

 

“ _Stillless - if you can hear me, knock over this glass_ ”

 

“This is ridiculous.” Peter grumbles, keen to get out of there, but feeling trapped all the same.

 

“ _You can do it! Come on!_ ”

 

“What did Deaton say when you told him?”

 

Scott rolls his eyes, “something vague and that he’ll get back to us soon. Maybe we should go where Stiles apparently appeared.”

 

Peter growls at the idea of the pack all turning up in his house.

 

“No.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, “not for now. If he could get there, he can get here.”

 

Peter is fetching a glass of water from the sink when Scott asks him, “what were you doing when Stiles appeared.”

 

He puts the glass down and is about to yell _none of your damn business,_ when the glass slips off the counter and hits the floor.

 

Everyone goes still, staring at the ruined glass and splattering of water.

 

“...was that?” Scott asks.

 

“Stiles!” Erica starts shouting, “knock over this glass too!”

 

Peter is staying supernaturally still, he doesn’t like the feeling that someone is close to him that he can’t sense. Someone as unpredictable and _dogged_ as Stiles.

 

A few seconds later, Erica’s glass ends up on the floor too.

 

“That was definitely not the wind.” Answers Isaac.

 

Derek makes an executive decision to get out some plastic cups from the cupboard to facilitate future communication to protect his glassware. And Erica excitedly tries to orchestrate a system for Stiles to communicate.

 

_‘Left for yes and right for no, wait it should be right for right, and left for no.’_

 

 _‘_ **_For fucks sake Erica, just pick a system and stick to it.’_ **

 

_‘Okay, okay, Stiles hit this cup if you get that it means yes.’ Stiles hits the other cup._

 

 _‘_ **_For fucks sake._ ** _’_

 

* * *

 

 

The next few hours went by quickly now Stiles seemed able to communicate with the pack. It wasn't a very concise art, and even when they managed to set up a functioning system they took a better part of a day to get things sorted.

 

Stiles had clearly tried to pick up a pen and write them a message at one point, but in the end had just flung it at Isaac's face. If Peter was to guess, that wasn’t wholly accidental.

 

Peter however had sat seething in the corner, speaking only when spoken to, but keeping a careful eye on the whole process. He had taken one of Derek’s sweatshirts, which sat impossibly close to his abs, so he was no longer ridiculously under dressed. He couldn’t help but think of the way Stiles was probably staring at him. It made him feel unsure. Proud, vain, attractive… like at the top of a slippery slope with no way back up.

 

When Scott and Stiles were keeping up a steady back and forth of dialogue, Peter motions to Derek to walk into the next room with him.

 

“You okay?” Derek asked him, clearly keen to work out what has happened.

 

“I’m fine, I’m going to head home.”

 

“Sure, I’ll send you a text if anything happens.”

 

Peter listened out for the systematic _clunk_ of a cup hitting the floor, suggesting that Stiles was still in the other room. “When I’m gone, make sure you stress to Stiles that he is not to follow me.”

 

Derek had a funny look on his face, “do you think he might?”

 

Peter really didn’t want to get into it, especially with so many supernatural ears near to him.

 

“Maybe, I’d just prefer to know exactly who is in my bedroom.” Derek looks like he’s about to say something. If Peter was to guess, it’d be something along the lines of ‘surely Stiles has already been in your bedroom’. The sad fact of the matter was that the teen hadn’t, not in a physical manner. All their trysts had fallen in more obscure places. _His living room, Derek’s kitchen… The woods._

 

Derek clearly thinks better of it, the man has more tact than he lets on. “Of course.”

 

Peter feels wary all the way home, unsure if someone is at his back. He feels hunted, and the thought brings a vivid memory to the surface: _the woods, revenge, a young pale boy on stomach._ His cock hardens at the memory, but the sour taste of discomfort accompanies it. Some things are best left in the past.

 

When he gets home he grabs some plastic picnic cups from his sideboard and brings them through to his bedroom. He places one on the table that once held the vase.

 

“Stiles, if you’re here, tell me now.”

 

Nothing but silence answers him.

 

He grabs a piece of paper saying and writes ‘I don’t want you here, leave now’ and finally gets into bed.

 

Peter wakes a few hours later to the sound of the cup falling to the floor.

 

The room is dark but his eyes pierce the low light easily. He stares daggers at where he assumes the teen is standing. “Get out.”

 

There’re nothing but silence for a few moments before the paper joins the cup on the floor. Peter doesn’t want to engage, doesn’t want to facilitate the crossing of his boundaries any further. He turns over with his back to the room. He dupes himself into believing that without attention Stiles would leave.

 

* * *

 

He locks down contact between him and the pack. Peter doesn’t want to encourage Stiles, doesn’t want to engage. He received updates from Derek though on what had happened.

 

The box had been a power igniter left by some witch. It didn’t affect wolves and sought the first human it could find. It facilitated astral projection. The fact that Stiles stayed under so long suggests that maybe he’s not _just_ human after all.

 

Every night the cup on his side table is on the floor. Peter ignores it.

 

He has things to do. He’s started up correspondence from an old school friend, he’s tentatively begun working for a literature magazine. Peter reopened some of the contacts he lost after the fire. Like a book that has had a few chapters ripped out, he’s trying to match up the narrative. It wasn't as smooth as he wants it to be, but in many ways it was easier than he expected. He thinks of going to Europe, to visit a pack he knew when he was young. He thinks of visiting Andrew’s grave. Andrew’s family. Peter doesn’t even know if his dead lover’s family knew he was alive. The funeral had long past by the time Peter awoke.

 

At the time Peter had wondered. If being the Alpha would mean that he could turn Andrew, the realisation that his partner was dead... Stable thought had eluded him, the need for power, pack and revenge too strong in his mind. It was hard to look back on a time when you were mindless and not apply your current thinking.

 

_The cup falls on the floor, Peter ignores it._

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s been awake for about an hour now.” Derek’s voice rumbles through the phone.

 

“Any lasting damage?”

 

“Apparently when we moved his body we let his leg go dead.”

 

“..I see. I imagine that Stiles has only mentioned this once, and is perfectly fine with with everyone not hearing about it.” He’s smiling, Peter can’t really help himself.

 

“ _Peter_ , he asked me for a sports massage.” Derek sounded so tired already, it was magnificent.

 

“Good to hear that things are back to normal then.”

 

“Something like that. Deaton is here, talking about his supposed ‘spark’ powers.”

 

“Ah, I had wondered…”

 

“This might change things.”

 

“Maybe, that or things will go back normal.”

 

“Normal?”

 

“Yes, Stiles returns to the fold. No more sulking and everyone goes back to playing happy little bad guy hunters.” Peter is going for nonchalant, he’s glad that Derek isn’t there in the room with him, otherwise he might have to self reflect a little on bitterness.

 

“Are you going to visit him?”

 

“No.”

 

“He’s probably going turn up at yours.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Are you planning on letting him in?”

 

Peter’s eyes look over to the still upturned cup on the floor, “no.”

 

Derek sighs down the phone, “I don’t know if I’m supposed to scold you or sigh in relief.”

 

“Well, I know what I’d prefer.”

 

“I thought becoming a better Alpha would mean having answers. Mostly it’s me accepting I don’t have any.”

 

“Maybe you should just give up.”

 

“What?!” Derek had a bitter growl in his voice.

 

“Why not, if you’re such a failure. Give over your powers, find some rambunctious little beta from another pack. Better still, give it to Scott, he can’t wait to leave you.”

 

“ _No_ , Peter! I’m finally making some progress here! The pack actually _works_ together. Erica and Boyd rely on me, even Scott respects me now… I’ve come too far.”

 

“Ah.” Peter is smiling again, he always enjoyed getting a rise out of Derek.

 

“...you’re a prick. You know that _uncle Peter_ , a prick.”

 

“As I said, things are back to normal.”

 

Peter heard Derek take a deep breath over the phone, “normal huh… Normal before meant not being able to trust you. Never knowing if I had your back.”

 

“I remember.”

 

“I think some changes are for the better.”

 

Derek was too young to be an Alpha, if he had had another few years of support from his mother ( _his sister_ ) it might have gotten him ready. He was never really born to be an Alpha, he didn’t want it enough. Didn’t like the threat of losing people. But he had a good heart, and it meant something to him. It was a shame his mother never got to see him excelling like this.

 

“I’m not going anywhere right now Derek.”

 

“But you are planning on leaving?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“I don’t want you to.”

 

“You telling me that as an Alpha?”

 

“No.. As your nephew… As a Hale who is trying to keep Beacon Hills a Hale pack.”

 

“You’re a manipulative little shit, you know that right?”

 

Derek laughs, it breaks the vulnerability and tension, “yeah well. I had to learn something from Stiles.”

 

“Yes, he is rather good at worming his way into what he wants. If only he knew what that was exactly.”

 

“I only recently realised how much I would hate to be locked in a room with the two of you.”

 

“Why? Scared we’d talk you into something embarrassing?”

 

“That or start fucking in the corner.” Peter’s eyebrows flew into his hairline and he lets out a bark of laughter.

 

“Well, there goes _your_ plausible deniability.”

 

“Yeah, well I think that went out the window when I arranged for you and him to meet up once a week to fight in the woods.”

 

Peter laughs, warm, “Mmmmh, I was wondering just what your play was there.”

 

“Like I said, turns out being an Alpha doesn’t mean actually having the answers.”

 

“Well, I did tell your mother enough times she didn’t have a fucking clue over the years…”

 

Derek’s laughter was like music to his ears. Easy, simple, family. A gift he never thought to ask for.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles turns up at his door two days later. As soon as Peter smells him he turns his phone on silent and sits quietly on his couch. Sure enough when Stiles knocks at his door and gets no answer, he tries texting him… And then calling him… And then knocking again. It takes almost an hour for him to go.

 

Peter receives five more texts from him that day. He throws out his cell and gets a new one, texting just Derek his number. He’s curious as to what Stiles’ face would be like when the phone doesn't ring through next time… Peter puts off the thought, and focusses on his latest article on the state of modern literature. He’s called it _If not Byron, at least not Dylan._ He agrees with Atwood’s remarks that the man doesn’t deserve his most recent acclimations, and imagines how angry it would make Andrew if he read it.

 

_He probably shouldn’t be thinking about Andrew either._

 

Stiles comes back two days later. Peter finds out because Stiles is sitting outside his door as he heads home. Thankfully he can sense the teen before he sees him, letting him turn straight back around and back into town. He catches a glimpse of Stiles writing in a moleskin, and his suspicions are confirmed when he gets home: Stiles has written him a note.

 

Peter toys with reading it, curiousity licking at his heels. But decides not to, shoving it in the bottom draw of his desk. Some books need to stay closed if they’re not to be read.

 

 _The problem is that Stiles has always reminded him a lot of Andrew. Physically and mentally. There was a scrappiness about him, a dark intellect that bubbled underneath. Andrew had been the first person to ever make Peter feel like he wasn’t_ too dark. _They’d been obnoxious kids together, and then sparring partners as adults. There was something in Stiles’ inability to hold back, his determination to throw himself into the line of fire even though he was weaker and more fragile than his peers. It goaded Peter in all the wrong ways._

 

Peter gets a text from Derek saying that Stiles has tried to steal his phone at least twice to get Peter’s new number. Peter can’t help but smile, it’s almost flattery. As much as it is an annoyance. Keeping your head above water when someone is determined to drag you back under is not an easy task.

 

* * *

 

Peter goes away for a week, out to Oregon to meet with Andrew’s sister. Derek doesn’t mind, but asks him to tell him when he’s heading home. The request to come home is implicit.

 

Meeting Sandra was harder than he expected. She still had a coldness around the eyes that Peter remembered from their school days. Two years above him and Andrew. On the honour role but smoked cigarettes behind the bleachers. She punched Andrew in the arm hard enough to bruise the first time she caught him smoking, but bought him packs after that. She’d buy them for Peter too, as long as he didn’t mouth off too much.

 

“I always knew you were gonna’ get Andrew killed one day.” She’s wearing a pretty dress and her hair is in a short bob. She could be a some hick’s house wife if it wasn’t for the fact that Peter knew she only fucked women. Things change though, but her nails were short enough to confirm the status quo.

 

“Maybe, although I remember more than one occasion that Andrew didn’t need my help when it came to risking his life.” Andrew had crashed his car four times from drink driving, once with a passed out Peter in the back. He’d dragged Andrew’s crumpled body out of the vehicle, and almost went feral when he saw the damage.

 

She pinched her lips into a mean grimace, before nodding. “You’re right there Hale. Andrew always was pretty fucked up.”

 

Peter shrugs, “we all were.”

 

She nods again, “you still smoke?”

 

“Sometimes… When I think of him.”

 

They get through a pack in the first hour, before moving to a bar near by. Neither of them cry, although they get pretty close to it when laughing about Peter’s 18th birthday.

 

“I thought your sister was going to kill you!”

 

“How was I supposed to know that you had stored my cake in the hunting cabin!”

 

“You were licking it off Andrew’s cock! You obviously found it!”

 

His hesitancy over reconnecting was shed by the seventh bottle, it returned by the fifteenth.

 

“You ever gonna’ tell me?”

 

“Tell me what?”

 

“You and your weird family. With the cult like good looks, and why you left that car without a scratch on you.”

 

Peter pursed his lips, “it doesn’t matter now.”

 

“You damn well know it matters now!” She’s angry, Peter had expected this. Prepared for it even. It still hurt though. 

 

He takes her hands in his.

 

“It doesn’t matter now. It got him killed, it almost got me killed. My mother died, my sister died. Children as young as two died… It doesn’t matter now as you’re free from it. Maybe I never should have dragged Andrew in it to it, but…”

 

He runs out of words. He had expected this, but he didn’t have the words for it.

 

Sandra’s anger weakens, “...you didn’t drag Andrew into it. He was obsessed with you. If you hadn’t loved him so bloody much I would have given him a stern talking to about stalking.”

 

It hurt. It was better than forgetting, but it hurt.

 

“I was never a good enough person to keep away from what I wanted anyway.”

 

She smiles, “that’s what he loved about you.”

 

He sleeps on Sandra’s couch that night instead of his hotel room. In the morning he wakes to the salty smell of bacon, spanish voices on the radio, and two cats sitting on his chest. One of them is a sleek Siamese short hair, the other a dumpy Persian with a flat face. They made each other look ridiculous.

 

“Hello,” he croaks, free from a hangover, but short of sleep all the same. Emotional hangover one could say. The Siamese sniffs at him before leaping off onto the floor, its companion following.

 

“Don’t mind them, they’re just hoping for breakfast.” A beautiful black woman standing in the doorway. Her skin rich like calla lilies, and an apron tied around her waist.

 

“Good morning, I’ll assume you’re Luiciana?”

 

“Call me Lou.” The woman had a thick Mexican accent, and a soft smile.

 

He stays with them for the rest of the week. It’s awkward but also nice. Sandra always had a bluntness to her that made it hard to tell what she was thinking, but her face was all happy smiles for Lou. He finds out Lou’s pregnant with their first child, only two months. It’s their second try at IVF.

 

“Your mother must be happy.” Peter says.

 

Sandra snorts, “she cried. She told me that she had resided herself to no grandchildren years ago when it turns out both her kids were gay as fuck.”

 

There’s an awkward pause. Peter and Andrew had never talked about children. They’d talked about a pack, one day Peter getting Alpha powers and turning him. They’d spoken about offering Sandra the bite. They’d spoken about a lot of things.

 

When he leaves Sandra drives him to the bus station.

 

“I’m happy for you.” He says, more genuine than he would have expected.

 

“Yeah, it’s all sunshine and rainbows these days.”

 

“If you ever need anything-”

 

“-I’ll call. What about you Hale?”

 

“What about me?”

 

“You found a future yet? Some man to settle down with?”

 

Peter gives her a funny look, it felt like she’d just spat on Andrew’s grave.

 

“No, that’s not-”

 

“You know what Andrew would have wanted?”

 

Peter rolls his eyes, “let’s not-”

 

“He’d want you to be alone, and miserable, and missing him. He was selfish like that.”

 

Peter gives her a smile, “I’m glad you said it.”

 

“He’d probably try and matyr himself in misery too, if you were the dead one. But in the end, he’d move on.” Peter doesn’t smile at that.

 

“I’m glad, I would have wanted him to.”

 

“I know, you always were a selfish fuck Hale but not for the people you loved. He might be dead, but he can be wrong. Andrew wasn’t perfect, he was a screw up. He hurt people, and he always put himself first. And I loved him anyway, so did you. But you don’t have to listen to him.”

 

“Sandra, you seem to be thinking that I’m single just because of the ghost of my ex boyfriend.”

 

She gave him a hard look, “your bull shit never worked on me Hale, you know that?”

 

“Yes. That’s why I liked you so much.”

 

She gave him a smile, and rolled her eyes. “Come back. Not too soon, but… Come back. You’ve got seven months to get your shit together if you want to meet Andrew’s niece or nephew.”

 

He gives her a smile, and then begrudgingly pulls her into a hug.

 

“You’re a bitch. I’m so glad that didn’t change.”

 

* * *

 

Peter has been home for little under an hour when Stiles turns up at his door.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! I've spoken a lot about Peter's feelings and intentions in this, and it was always kinda vague. Why he was like he was and stuff. I feel like I've let you all peak behind the curtain a bit with him.
> 
> Proper resolution should be in the final chapter! Who knows what will happen.
> 
> Kudos & comments make dreams come true, please support your neighbourhood fic writer <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Final Chapter (yes, somehow I managed to finish this fic).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely agonised over this chapter. It's super long (over 9k) and includes a ridiculously long epilogue that should have been its own chapter but I just wanted to get this beast _done_.
> 
> In the end I decided to just accept that I wasn't doing the 5 + 1 trope anymore, and just write the story I wanted to. I hope that's okay by you all. I'm going to edit the name of this fic at some point, feel free to suggest titles in the comments.
> 
> (Warnings at end).

 

Peter is  _ tired.  _ He has had a long day: travelling, emotionally exorcising old wounds. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, the sound of Stiles’ fluttering heartbeat a ticking clock of inevitability. Peter has the irrational impulse to kill him. One quick movement across the throat, and the boy would be dead. Messy though. A headache to wash out of his auburn stained wooden floors. Maybe choke him then, Peter would still get to put his hands around that pretty long neck then. Squeeze the life out of him, stop this shit show of a train wreck in its tracks. But it’d probably be too slow. Enough time for Stiles to make his pathetic little noises, to watch Peter with his big whisky eyes, and beg him to be nice to him. 

 

Perhaps a pillow over the face then. A soft death, and no eye contact. 

 

The thought of Stiles laying in his bed, open and vulnerable to him. Eagerly waiting his death or his pleasure, is far too much of an appetising image. Peter tries to pack it away. In a box, taped up with scotch tape, shut in a vault, without a combination, buried in the garden with three foot of soil on top. Maybe a patio over that, with lawn chairs. 

 

He hears the sound of what he is almost certain is a lock pick. Stiles is doing a truly awful job, to Peter’s sensitive hearing the sound of metal dragging against the tumblers inside the lock sounds hamfisted. 

 

With a sigh he Peter gets up to the door. 

 

Stiles falls over when he opens it.

 

“I wasn’t doing anything. Wow, I forgot how tall you in person.”

 

“You mean when you’re corporeal.” 

 

Stiles nods, taking a step towards Peter even though his skin is tinged pink. He’s trying to get a foot in the door, in case Peter tries to shut him out again. Stiles body language literally translates every move he plans to make, and Peter is struck again by how desperately Stiles needs some more combat training. 

 

_ By you. You taught Andrew so well. He killed a werewolf for you once.  _

 

Peter rolls his eyes. At both of him: Stiles idiocy, and Peter’s clearly twice as strong idiocy for allowing any of this to get so out of control. 

 

“Come on then.” He leaves the door and walks into the kitchen, locating his kettle and filling it with water from the tap. He needs tea. If there was anything Talia ever got right, it was that tea made everything better. 

 

Stiles had instantly scrambled into the apartment, shutting the door behind him, before lingering by the door. Peter watches him out the corner of his eyes as he opened up his cupboards. “Tea?”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m making tea. Would you like some?” 

 

Stiles looks at him skeptically, before stepping into the kitchen proper. Leaning his hip against a cabinet and instantly tapping his hand against the counter. “Yes. Do you have the stuff Derek had?”

 

It’s not surprising that Stiles has some insight into his and Derek’s standing tea date, but only because Stiles clearly has stalking tendencies. “Sure. You can go wait in the lounge if you want.” 

 

Stiles shoots him another look, “By myself?”

 

“Well, I don’t have much left to worry about you poking your nose into.” Peter says sharply, striking a match so he can light his gas stove and heat up the kettle. The smell of sulphur bursts into the air, barely covering the deep scent of nerves emanating from Stiles.

 

“Okay.”

 

He gets out cups as the water starts boiling, delicate little things good for letting the first ache of heat out so your tea is drinkable, dropping a tea bag into each. Peter hears Stiles slowly try and pull open one of Peter’s desk draws. The one with his letters in it.

 

“That didn’t mean I was encouraging you to!” Peter shouts, and Stiles obviously jumps, and walks back to the couch. Peter wants to throttle him. (Although he has quite obviously learned that that is not a line of thinking he should encourage going down).

 

Stiles is still sitting when Peter returns to the room. They drink in silence for a while, and Peter enjoys a rare moment of Stiles having enough to do with himself that he isn’t fidgeting. Maybe next time Stiles darkens his door he should shove a bowl of peanuts in front of him. 

 

Although he clearly burned his tongue at some point, Stiles finishes first. Fiddling with the cup’s handle enough that Peter wonders if it’ll come off. It doesn’t matter, he’s unlikely to want to keep them. He’ll probably give Derek most of his stuff. It’ll be a shame to lose the apartment, but he isn’t exactly strapped for cash.  _ Life insurance, personal savings, investments _ . He can always buy a new place.

 

Stiles nerves vibrate out of him, the scent of prey and arousal hanging heavy in the air. It sets Peter’s teeth on edge, like Stiles is playing him like a finely strung instrument and the sound being made is an unending need to cut his heart out his chest. 

 

He's not the only person Peter has so regularly fantasized about murdering. But he is one of the few he'd like to fuck first. 

 

“Is there a reason you invited me in?” Stiles finally caves, putting his cup on the floor and turning his body so he is facing Peter who is sitting at the opposite side of the coach. 

 

Peter wants to sigh, but if he does then he worries he might not stop.

 

"You're the one who came knocking on my door." He answers, eyes closed and head tipped back onto backrest.

 

Stiles fidgets some more, before moving slightly closer. "I've been trying to get back in here so many times, I can't even remember what my excuse was."

 

Peter snorts. He's always found Stiles' awkwardly abrasive honesty endearing.

 

"I was worried you weren't going to let me back in... Because of all the... You know, turning up."

 

"Invasion of my privacy."

 

"Yeah, that. Do you want me to say sorry? I'm sorry."

 

"You don't regret doing it."

 

Stiles bites his lip. "You'll know if I lie... But I want to regret doing it. Like I know I should, but..."

 

"But you enjoyed it too much to take it back."

 

Stiles nods, frowning. "Enjoy is the wrong word. I just mean... Everything makes more sense when I'm near you."

 

Peter doesn't want to hear this. He doesn't want to know how successfully he's borrowed his way under Stiles' skin. Doesn't want to know that Stiles has built himself on Peter's approval. It's the kind of drug that Peter had longed craved for and needed to go cold turkey on.

 

"That isn't healthy."

 

"You're telling me... But it's not the worse thing. I like that it's you." Stiles is just shuffling closer and closer on the couch. Like a moth to a flame. Any minute now he's going to try and get Peter's hands on him.

 

"Do you even enjoy the sex?" The thought just comes to Peter suddenly, he'd known this whole time that it wasn't really about the sexual acts that kept Stiles coming back to him. It was the intimacy. The knowledge that Peter wanted him. But he was curious if Stiles even thought he enjoyed it.

 

"Oh. Kinda' I guess. I mean-" Stiles freezes slightly, "-I mean you're good. I'm not saying you're not. Shit, this is going horribly."

 

Peter laughs at him, it's all he can really do.

 

"Out of the four times we've been intimate, you've only climaxed twice. That's just averages."

 

"Five times."

 

"What?"

 

"We've... Done things five times." Peter's mind flicks through their shambles of sexual history. The night Stiles was drunk in his apartment, their caustic coupling on Derek's kitchen counter, the time he stroked Stiles until he creamed himself in this very room, the first time Stiles tried coming onto him... That had been it. He looks at Stiles curiously, wondering if Stiles was including something from his nightly stalking.

 

"If you watched me jerk off one night, I wouldn't really think that as us being intimate. From what I've heard you didn't even have a corporeal cock to play with." He smiles, mostly teeth, widening further when Stiles' cheeks go a dark pink colour. He remembers what he was doing when Stiles became visible to him.

 

"That... Is not what I meant. I meant... That first time, in the forest."

 

The memory brings with it the scent of pine, the taste of scared teen, and the feeling of being an Alpha: power, need for pack, revenge. The very thought of it gives Peter's cock encouragement to plump up, all the while bile settles under his tongue.

 

It wasn't him. But it was, that's a fact.

 

"Of course." Peter thinks some more about it, about Stiles dogged obsession with him. About his inability to think of intimacy without violence. "I broke you that night."

 

Stiles frowns, an angry little frown across his forehead. "I'm not.. Broken. I'm a bit fucked up, but I'm not broken."

 

As quick as a flash Peter dashes out a hand. Snagging Stiles' wrist. Gripping it painfully and pulling him closer.

 

The teen gasps, the taste of fear and arousal perfuming the air, and he let's himself be dragged forward.

 

"You're aroused." Peter says, letting him go, throwing the arm away from him as if it disgusts him. He's angry. At himself, at Stiles for being a walking reminder of his past mistakes.

 

Stiles pants at him, bringing his arm closer to his body. There's five little bruises coming up livid against the pale skin already.  _ Andrew always bruised so easily, it made it worse every time he almost got himself killed. _

 

"I'm a teenager.. I'm always horny." Stiles says lightly, but his heart is fluttering. It's a careful skirting of the not-truth. Peter liked that about him too, his ability to tiptoe around the wolves in his life, apply the truth how he wanted to get away with the lies.

 

"This is the time in your life when you need to break that habit. Of confusing fear and panic with attraction and intimacy. What I took from you that night wasn't sex Stiles. I took power from you."

 

Stiles frowns some more, shifting closer, trying to get his knees against Peter's thigh.

 

"I'm not... Trying to recreate that.. I just like you. I being around you makes... Things just make more sense around you."

 

Peter sighs.

 

"No look. You said this before, you know, about the keeping away from you thing. Get a drug problem you said. But we didn't do it then either. Will you touch me? I feel kinda' cold, I've been thinking about you touching me since I couldn't touch anything at all. Since I didn't know if I ever would again." Stiles puts his hand on Peter's thigh, a few inches lower than where the man's erection is straining against the material.

 

He needs to stop thinking about murdering Stiles.  _ I mean, fucking him. I need to stop thinking about fucking him. _

 

"You're going to get yourself killed." Peter says softly, he moves though, into Stiles' space. He sets his teeth into Stiles cheek and imagines what it'd be like to rip out the flesh. He bites, not hard enough to break skin but in the sensitive spot in makes Stiles whine. Putting his hands up to stop him, but not pushing away all the same. Acceptance. Submission to the violence.

 

Peter really should stop now.

 

He moves his mouth so he can bite the skin of Stiles neck instead. His fangs prickle under his gums, eager to come out.  _ Wouldn't it have been amazing if you did this that night. If you turned this one. If you dragged him through your Alphadom with you. It wouldn't have been that different from Andrew being there. _

 

Peter sighs at the thought of his ex partner. The love of his life. The dead man who haunts him. The only person who really understood the violence the rippled under Peter's skin. More than his family - even though they were wolves - no one understood the need to just destroy what is peaceful so you can feel free from the chains of monotony.  _ Peter needs to get away. He needs to bury his ghosts and break this cycle. _

 

He bites Stiles, and the young man goes pliant under him.

 

"I'm going to fuck you." Peter tells the soft skin of his jaw.

 

Clean taste of body wash from Stiles' recent shower, damp with the taste of sweat. Stiles leaking his excitement, fear, nerves through his pores. Peter wants to swallow it.

 

"As in, actually fuck me?" Stiles stutters out. Peter can't really tell if that's agreement or denial, but Stiles doesn't put up any resistance.

 

"Actually fuck you." And Peter claims his mouth, finally pushing his tongue into the depths. He pushes Stiles down onto the couch, holding the back of the teen's head as he goes, so he doesn't have to break the kiss. He wants to cover the man, so he does. Boxing him in with his thighs, careful not to push his prick against the soft flesh beneath him so as to not speed things up too quickly.  _ If he's not careful, he'll just rut onto the body below him. _

 

Maybe he should, maybe he should flip Stiles over and fuck his thighs. Recreate the night that has obviously flicked behind the man's eyelids countless times.

 

Stiles moan breaks his thoughts.

 

He's scrabbling to hold on to something. Trying to jut his hips up so his own prick will rub against Peter. He's shameless, and Peter loves it.

 

"You're eager." Peter tells him, slightly bitterly. It makes Stiles pink, "You're hungry for it. You've thought about this." Stiles moans in agreement. Bringing their mouths together again - to shut Peter up or to say the things his mouth can't with words. The teen sucks hard on his tongue, and Peter gives in. Pushing his cock against the material of his jeans and the soft body beneath him.

 

There's too many clothes.

 

Peter wants to rip them off him.

 

He slides a hand under Stiles t shirt. Flicking at the nipples as he goes, pinching one so it becomes a hard nub instead. He pinches harder, so Stiles wines. Going softer beneath him. Accepting the pain. The smell of arousal is thicker in the air.

 

Peter divulges him of the rest of his clothes. Manhandling him like he couldn't move himself. The t-shirt hits the floor, and then Peter flips him over pulling down the teen's pants - the blue boxers going with it.

 

He's back here. Pale globes of an arse in front of him, skinny white thighs just visible. If he could he would bury his cock in there right now. Hot, break open the flesh to let him in. Bite into Stiles' neck as he goes. Turn him. Make him pack. Finish what he started.

 

_ Peter needs to calm down. _

 

He takes a deep breath, and slides his hands over the offering in front of him. The side of his palm slips between the cheeks and he explores the hidden cleft.

 

Stiles is moaning into the couch cushions. Not pushing back, but not moving away either. Accepting of whatever Peter does.

 

Peter adds his other hand to endeavour, opening up body beneath him - pulling each cheek apart so he can see the hole between them. It's visceral. Peter wants to bite him. Instead he bends down to lick a long hot strip up the groove. His jaw dragging along the soft flesh, stubble bringing pink to the surface, and a wet tongue making the area slick.

 

Stiles moans. "Oh, oh, okay." He bubbles into the cushions. Shifting his legs. Unable to move them apart due to the jeans and Peter's thighs pinning them.

 

"You're so open to me." Peter tells him, slipping a hand down again. His thumb brushing over the quivering hole. He's been here, that night in Derek's kitchen. He pushes his thumb in, enjoying the way Stiles' body opens under him, and twitches under the intrusion.

 

"A lot." Stiles says. Peter isn't sure if he's talking about the pressure, or finally an answer for how much Stiles has thought about this. Peter accepts both, pushing his thumb in further. Tugging against the rim so Stiles opens more.

 

Stiles  _ whines. _ A high note keen. Whining as Peter begins fucking him with his thumb.

 

There's a lot of resistance.

 

"Do you ever do this for yourself?" Peter asks, keeping his line of sight on Stiles' hole and the way it looks for his thumb to penetrate it.

 

"No. Oh, oh fuck, no. I've thought about it. About you..  _ fuck _ ." Peter goes deeper, egged on by Stiles' words. Trying to find the sensitive nub inside him. He knows he's close when Stiles can do nothing but swear. His hips thrusting forward as he tries to stimulate his dick at the same time.

 

"Thought about this? About my thick fingers in you? Or about my cock?"

 

Stiles whines again.

 

"All of it," he gasps out, as Peter switches to two fingers instead. He'll need lube if anything else is going to go in. If he doesn't want to actually damage Stiles. "Everything. Anything you'll give me."

 

Peter growls. It's seductive. Stiles submission and capitulation tastes like sugar on his tongue.

 

He bends back down to lick around the entrance, easing the way his fingers pump in and out with saliva. Peter will need to take off the trousers if he wants the dexterity he craves, but he likes it like this. Stiles trapped under him, still twisted up in his clothes. Open to Peter to play with.

 

"I've thought about this every night since-"Stiles begins, Peter growls, with his spare hand he pushes down Stiles neck. Cutting off his air, smothering him with the cushions below him. He doesn't want to hear, doesn't want to know how fully he has branded the teen below him. It's too much like a drug, too addictive.

 

"Stay here." There's lube in his cabinet drawer. The cheap kind you get from the clinic, not as good quality as what he has in his bedroom. For when he plans to have guests. But he doesn't want to leave Stiles.

 

_ Worried he'll leave. Worried you'll give yourself time to second guess if this is a good idea. _

 

Stiles is inching down his trousers when he gets back, a hand underneath him to squeeze his cock. Peter pulls them away, for a moment he pulls them both behind the teens back. Trapping them there with one hand. It's an attractive look, unable to move. Peter pictures what it'd be like to fuck him like that.

 

The silence gets to Stiles, he begins panting. Little movements to try and ease the tension. Peter can smell the embarrassment. The teen doesn't like the idea of being looked at.

 

"I can see all of you." Peter tells him, enjoying the taste of unease as it filters through the air, "I could open you for me. Look at all your secret places. None of you is a secret to me."

 

Stiles keens at that. The scent of precum filters through the air. 

 

It's enough to spur Peter on. He divests Stiles of his pants completely, throwing them across the room With his mouth he rips open the packet of lube and squeezes it out over the crease of Stiles' arse. He finally lets go of Stiles' arms so he can hold open one of those cheeks again so he has access to the hole. Two slick fingers pump into the warm body easily, fast little movements only a few inches in and out. Fingers crooking every few thrusts to  _ catch  _ and then ignore the sensitive prostate. Stiles is mewling. He always was such good prey.

 

Peter wants to fuck him like it was yesterday.

 

He keeps his actions measured though, not letting his control slip.  _ Once you let some of it go, it'll all go.  _ Peter knows he's being a hypocrite as so much of the night as already gotten away from him. He didn't plan to spread Stiles open beneath him, didn't plan to give in to temptation. He'd planned to put a stop to this. Every time. He's planned to put a stop to this.

 

He pulls off his shirt in one quick movement and undoes his pants. There's something he likes about the idea of keeping his clothes on, to amp up the uneven power dynamics, but the opportunity to feel all that soft skin against his own is too tempting.  _ If this is your last chance to... _

 

Peter is free of his clothes and he hisses in pleasure as he palms his own dick. Livid red in arousal, once again he looks down at how  _ narrow  _ Stiles is. At how vulnerable he looks to Peter's size. It encourages a bead of precum to pulse from his dick. He groans.

 

"You look so open for me." He pulls Stiles cheeks apart  _ again.  _ He'll never get over the sight. At the visceral pleasure of manhandling someone. For getting to revel in his baser desires. Stiles is a bit quieter now. Little gasps below him. The scent of arousal is still in the air.

 

Peter presses on.

 

He brings his dick to the wet slick sliding down Stiles clef. Pushing the hot head against the soft balls tucked underneath. He fucks the crevice a few times.

 

It takes a moment until he realises that Stiles has gone still. The scent of fear wars strongly with a taste of sex so clearly sinking into the room. Stiles has always tasted slightly like fear, constantly nervous. Constantly pushing himself between adrenaline and  _ give me more _ , and anxiety and  _ please stop.  _ The taste of Stiles' fear is as familiar as the sugar burnt flavour of his arousal... Peter notices that the latter has ebbed significantly.

 

The teen has lost his erection. Something about the act has tripped him over into absolute fear. His limbs are frozen.

 

The worse thing about it is that there's a large part of Peter that is just  _ more  _ aroused. That this is right. That this is what Stiles wants to offer him. His hand that is clutching the back of the coach sprouts claws, and tenses at the idea of  _ pushing in. _

 

He breaths out. The moment passes. He brings himself back down from the brink.

 

Delicately he moves his body away from the smaller figure beneath him. Letting his legs go wide so he's resting on his own thighs instead of trapping Stiles beneath him.

 

"You're scared."

 

"No." A lie. A lie that didn't even need Peter's abilities to hear a heart skip over itself, when so much fear is dripping down the boy's spin. Peter ghosts a finger up the light sweat covering him. It makes the skin below goose pimple, and a gentle shiver run up him.

 

Peter still wants to suffocate him.

 

Peter wonders if he's suffocating himself.

 

He keeps stroking, gentle movements like they aren't naked and two moments before he wasn't about to fuck the breath out of the teen. Slow, gentle, intimate.

 

_ He was these things too.. Sometimes... With Andrew. It had always depended on what they wanted, what they needed. You didn't always have to be the same person every day. _

 

The all out fear that was warring in Stiles' flesh has mellowed into a low anxiety.

 

"Do you not want to anymore?" The teen asks.

 

Peter does. He's this far along, it feels like it would be a disappointing end if they get this close to the precipice and don't bother throwing themselves off.

 

"I'm curious as to why  _ you  _ want something that scares you so much."

 

Stiles shrugs, his heart rate tripping up again. Whatever thoughts that are passing through his brain are clearly not welcome ones. Peter feels like even if he had a direct line into Stiles' inner monologue he wouldn't be able to fully understand him: not when Stiles himself is so lost in the thicket of what he wants, and what he's scared of.

 

Peter fucks him again with his fingers. No warning, just two thick fingers through slick flesh. Stiles moans and freezes at the same time, pushing in and away. Forever not sure, wanting, desperately wanting, but not knowing how to accept it anyway.

 

It's Peter's fault. Fucking hell of course it's Peter's fault. He took something, left something broken behind. Imprinted on Stiles like a monster under the bed and then didn't even have the decency to stay away. Hung around, socialised with those who Stiles loves and respects, accepted by them (in his own way). Stiles watching his abuser navigate his world easier than he ever could. Even with Peter's reputation on his back, no one was trying to throw Peter out the world of supernatural. Not like they do Stiles at a moment's notice.

 

He leans forward, enjoying the taste of arousal that has finally returned to the air. He kisses the back of Stiles' neck, blunt teeth. Thinks about biting him, "Maybe this would have been easier if I turned you that night." And fear, the fear is there. So much citrus bitterness over his tongue, blended undeterred with the burnt sugar of arousal. Like a cold glass of lemonade on a hot summer's day. "Maybe at least then you would have your place secured with me. With them. No one could take away your control any more."

 

Peter removes his fingers and brings his prick back to Stiles' entrance. Still as hard as before, sliding hot along Stiles' cleft. Stiles heart is thumping as fast as Peter's wants to be fucking him.

 

"Except you."

 

Peter kisses his throat. "Except me?"

 

"You'd still have my control."

 

He's trying to calm down, trying to accept it. Peter feels the tip of his prick brush over the quivering hole and he feeds himself forward.

 

"Only if you give it to me."

 

He pushes, just enough to breach. Just enough Stiles whines long and hard. His hands gripping the cushions. Probably in pain, it's bigger than what Peter has given him thus far. A lot. Peter remembers the first time Andrew fucked him, in the back of Peter's car, on his back. Andrew kissing him, going too fast. Too stupid to think about someone else's comfort. So utterly in love with him that Peter wanted to pretend it was good anyway.

 

He pauses there, just the tip. Wrestling back his own control. Panting hotly into Stiles' scalp.

 

Peter has the feeling that Stiles has lost his erection again, but he waits.

 

"It hurts." Stiles finally says.

 

"It always does at first."

 

Stiles nods, and then swallows in his throat. "I don't mind. You can... You can do it anyway." Peter can't help himself, his hips thrust forward slightly at the admission, even as he planned to wait until Stiles had relaxed. He forces himself still, grabs the back of Stiles' neck and pins him to the couch. Trying to shut him up, keep him silent, stop him playing tricks with all of Peter's buttons.

 

"You need to stop doing that." Peter answers, his voice wrecked.

 

Stiles whines slightly under the pressure of his neck, "Stop what?"

 

"The thing that makes me want to cause you serious damage."

 

Fear. Such sweet fear. Peter is never going to be able to drink lemonade without an erection ever again.

 

"Okay." Stiles answers, "Whatever you want, tell me what to do."

 

It's not much better, it might even be worse. Peter finally let's up on his grip. He slides two fingers into Stiles mouth, maybe to shut him up. Maybe just for the pleasure of it. Stiles sucks on him, and Peter gently gyrates his hips. Dragging those two inches in and out from him.

 

It must work a little bit, the taste of arousal filters through the air.

 

Peter removes his now wet hand and moves back so he can see where their bodies are joined. It's a beautiful sight. He shifts his hips a few times and tries to cement the image to memory. With his wet hand he massages around Stiles' rim. Playing with the puffy flesh. Stiles hisses and moans. His body going tight before relaxing again. Peter slides his other hand underneath him, finding the half hard erection (more than what he expected) and jerking it a few times in tandem to his ministrations.

 

Stiles whines. His body gets more relaxed. 

 

Peter thrusts a few more times, watching the hypnotising sight of his prick disappearing into the small body beneath him. Stiles dick is plumping up in his hand, and he squeezes the tip every time he jerks it, wringing torn off sounds from the body below him.

 

He knows when his dick is pushing against something good for Stiles, as the body goes tight, and then Stiles his moaning out loud. Shuffling his own hips, trying to get more of it. Peter's prick sinks in further and it makes him groan.

 

He snaps his hips a few times, still not giving Stiles' all of it, but enough that it is good for both of them. Speeding up his hand as he goes. He doesn't need to play with Stiles' hole anymore, the teen already lax enough to accept him, and instead he holds onto the Stiles' hip so he can manhandle him into accepting more and more, feeding half of his dick in and out of him.

 

"Shit. Peter, oh, oh." The words are a pleasure in of themselves. Stiles voice wrecked from pleasure, completely undone.

 

Peter speeds up, all of it, he wants to push all the way inside. But he's going to wait, trying to hold back, wait until Stiles  _ needs it _ , will take anything to get off.

 

It only takes ten more minutes until Stiles is babbling and his dick is vibrating in his hand - "Peter I'm going to- I'm going to-". It's enough, Peter has waited long enough, he fucks the whole of his erection inside. Stiles keens, shocked little noises punching out of him, and he cums messily in Peter's hand.

 

The taste in the air is gorgeous. Peter doesn't want to - can't - hold back anymore. He smother's Stiles' body with his own. His chest plastered to Stiles' back, and humps his dick into the body. Again and again. Hard long strokes. His uncut dick rubbing against the liquid heat insides of Stiles, the foreskin rubbing back and forth over his own sensitive head buried deep inside the body.

 

Stiles is whining. Panting. At one point trying to say too much, before just accepting. Giving in. Taking what Peter is giving him. It's gorgeous. He squeezes the soft dick in his hand, making Stiles' mewl in distress, and bites - unfortunately human teeth - into the long neck open to him.

 

It's enough, he's cumming. Hips snapping forward so he releases deep inside Stiles' gut.

 

He groans into the flesh caught between his teeth. Pictures what it would have been like if this was  _ that night _ . If this was how he turned Stiles. If this was binding them together.

 

It's enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles doesn't talk for a while afterwards. At first he's panting, and then he just goes quiet. They've never spent much time next to each other after these moments, and Peter has the urge to keep to form. Leave. Let Stiles lick his wounds in peace. Allow Peter to be free from the image of his patheticness.

 

He needs a cigarette.

 

He hates Stiles for how much he reminds him of Andrew that the nicotine craving perks up.

 

Peter walks to the kitchen to grab his cigarettes, tucked into the back of a cupboard behind the dinner plates. An emergency stash that has been plundered and replaced too many times since he and Stiles has started up this elaborate dance.

 

As an afterthought he grabs a cloth, dampening it in the sink and walking back to Stiles. The teen yips when the cold material falls on his leg. Peter bites back a moan as he takes in the sight once again. Stiles leg hitched up, his hole visible. Peter's cum slipping out of him. He wants to take a photo of it. He turns away to the window, unphased by his nudity, and opens the latch.

 

He pays half an eye on Stiles as he slowly puts himself together, cleans up the worse of the cum. Stiles clothes are halfway across the room from where Peter threw them, so the teen picks up Peter's instead. It makes Peter roll his eyes: thief. If he isn't careful he'll never get them back.

 

Stiles tugs the blanket over one of the arms of the couch onto him, slipping it around his shoulders to protect him from the chill.

 

Stiles looks at Peter, raises his chin slightly. A mark of a fighter. It makes Peter's heart ache for something (someone) who died, makes his fingers twitch so he can take Stiles' jaw a kiss him.

 

He doesn't. He keeps smoking his cigarette.

 

"Do you always smoke after sex?" Stiles asks, eager eyes flicking over Peter. Stealing the image of him lounging in his nakedness.  _ Thief _

 

"No."

 

Stiles bites his lip, his heart rate tripping up as Peter can hear he's planning to take risks. "Only after good sex?" He has a hesitant grin on his face.

 

Peter snorts. "No."

 

"...But it was right?"

 

Peter looks at him blankly.

 

"Good I mean. It was good for you."

 

Peter sucks down another mouthful of smoke. "Was it good for you?"

 

The urge to understand what Stiles even gets from this broken arrangement plagues him again.  _ You broke him, that's all there is to it. You break it, you keep it. _

 

Stiles grins at him, arousal in the air already.  _ Teenagers.  _ "Yes. I thought my brain was gonna' melt... Do you want to do it again?"

 

Peter's dick twitches as the thought, and Stiles' eyes drop to it. A bigger smile crawling onto his face.  _ But fear, he's always so scared. He's terrified. _

 

He rolls his eyes. "No."

 

Stiles shrugs like it isn't a big deal. Like he doesn't smell like disappointment and relief all wound up into one.

 

"That's okay. Do you want to eat?"

 

He's trying to force intimacy between them.

 

"No."

 

"More tea?"

 

"No."

 

"Wanna' practice some self defence?" Peter actually would like an excuse to beat the shit out of Stiles right now.

 

"No."

 

Stiles narrows his eyes in frustration. "You gonna' ever talk to me in sentences longer than one fucking word?"

 

It's nice to taste some of Stiles' anger. It spikes up now and again, like hot turmeric over a sweet bell peppers. It makes him hungry, reminds him how long it is that he's cooked properly for himself. Maybe some tandoori chicken. He has no idea what kind of food Stiles eats - not that Peter will cook for him - but it's funny in some ways to know what someone tastes like as they orgasm but have no idea what they eat when alone.

 

Maybe a different life.

 

_ Andrew loved Indian food, he'd grown up in and out of his next door neighbour's home. A Bangladeshi family. Two sons and a young girl. Miles of ghee, dahl and pakora. They probably attended his funeral. Peter only met them once. He'll never see them again. _

 

He smokes the rest of his cigarette, flicking the butt out the window and lighting another one straight up again.

 

"I'm working up to something." He says with a closed smile.

 

Stiles stops in his tirade, deflating. Suddenly looking interested, relieved that Peter has given him some kurnal.  _ So easy to please, so hard to keep sated. _

 

"Oh, okay... Are you going to say it now?"

 

"In a moment. I need a second cigarette."

 

"Okay... Can I have one?"

 

"No."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because I distinctly told you to start a drug habit on your own time. I refuse to debauch you and get you addicted to drugs."

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, but stays put. Happy to watch Peter, drinking him in again.  _ Thief. _

 

It's probably only been a handful of minutes, ten maybe. Twenty if he's been really dragging out the last few cigarettes in his box. But it's been enough, long enough that this isn't happening on the tail of Peter fucking away the last vestiges of Stiles' virginity.

 

"Okay." He says.

 

"Okay?"

 

Peter picks up his slacks, pulling them on without underwear thanks to Stiles still claiming his.

 

"You're a spark."

 

Stiles smiles, excited. "I am... I don't know what it means yet."

 

"It'll take you a while to find out. You should focus on that."

 

Stiles creases his eyebrows, not upset, curious. "I am, I'm supposed to meet Deaton tomorrow."

 

"I know."

 

"Oh, do you know anything about sparks?"

 

"Not really."

 

"Okay...  I don't get it, if this what you were building up to?"

 

"Kind of. He's going to invite you to go stay with his cousin for a year."

 

Stiles eyes bug out. "What! Where?"

 

"Out of state: Montana."

 

"That's pretty far... I don't know if I can..."

 

"I'm leaving."

 

Stiles flinches. It Peter was kinder he would feel sorry for the teen. "What? Why? No, where are you going?"

 

"To visit a friend."

 

Stiles' eyes glance to the draw he had been trying to break into while Peter was making tea. Where the letters that Stiles' probably watch him write while undetectable. Jealous  (musk, like coffee beans and forgotten chocolate) and anger (tumeric, ghee, spice) flavour the air. Before flicking his eyes back to Peter. "Are you going because of me?"

 

If Stiles had ever learned an inch of his worth he would ask  _ are you leaving  _ for  _ me.  _ Between his friends abandonment and Peter's careless playing however, he's without the impulse to think him central to anything. Desperate to matter, to break his way into other's affections. Unable to see how he's pulled so many into his orbit.

 

"No." It could be a lie. Peter is glad there are no wolves to tell him.

 

"Can I convince you to stay?"

 

"No."

 

"I'll give you..." Stiles it racking through his mind.

 

"You've already given me everything." It's a cruel thing to say, but there were crueller things Peter could have said.

 

Stiles cries. It's not a surprise, but it's unfortunate. Peter already wishes he had more cigarettes. It'd probably be considered unkind if he left now to get some. Worst, Stiles would probably stay here and wait for him.... Raiding his desk drawer as he goes.

 

"I don't understand. Things were supposed to get better now. I'm a spark. I'm not... Fragile anymore. I'm supposed to be allowed back into the pack - why are you leaving?"

 

"It's for the best."

 

Stiles comes to him. Burying his head into Peter's chest, his arms around his stomach. Peter has never hugged him until now, and it highlights the height disparity. A few more years and the teen might be tall.  _ Andrew was tall. _

 

"You make me feel calm, I think about you all the time."

 

"You'll have other things to think about."

 

"I won't go. Even if you leave, I won't go."

 

"Fine. Waste your time here. Wait until Scott figures out you're just as vulnerable as before, before Derek succumbs to his and your father's pressures to kick you out again. I won't be here to see it..." He's being cruel, Peter isn't sure if that was part of the plan.

 

_ Who is he kidding, there was no plan. _

 

"I don't want you to go. I want things to..." Stiles stumbles over his word, digs his nails into Peter's side to make up for what he can't say.

 

"You would have made a beautiful wolf." Peter didn't mean to say it out loud.

 

Stiles looks up at him in shock, eyes dewey. He opens his mouth and snaps it close again.

 

"Do you wish you turned my that night?" There's so much desperation in that voice it almost scares Peter.

 

"Yes. Do you wish you accepted?"

 

Stiles doesn't say anything. A picture book of emotions pass over his face. "Maybe. I want a way to stop you leaving me...."

 

"But you've never wanted to be a wolf."

 

Stiles shrugs, "I've never wanted to... Do you think it's because I'm a spark?"

 

It's an interesting idea, Peter is reminded about how much he enjoys Stiles' brain. "Maybe."

 

"You're really going to go."

 

"I'm really going to go."

 

"Will I talk to you?"

 

Peter smiles, "If I said no, you'll probably try anyway."

 

There's a large ugly tear running down Stiles' face. "Yeah. I will."

 

Peter didn't plan to fuck Stiles' the first time.. Or the second time. Or the third time, that morning. The last time though, he planned it as it a goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Four Months Later _

 

"Are you enjoying England?" Stiles voice sounds kind of hushed through the phone, but it's probably due to the long distance than anything particularly emotional. There had been a lot of emotionally wobbly moments from the younger man in the first month of leaving, and Peter had had to shut down communication between them completely.  _ It wasn't the kindest thing to do, but Peter wasn't the kindest person. _

 

"Yes, I arrived in Manchester last night. It's exactly as I remembered it, which is unfortunate in some ways." He says with a smile. There's something really charming about the Capital of the North. Less gritty than London, and without the Old Money furnishings. The poverty and cheap housing however means the art culture is thriving, and pubs and music venues spill out of every corner.

 

"You're at  _ his  _ house?" Stiles says quietly.

 

"Yes." He'd fucked Mark through the bed last night, the only man who had held his attentions outside Andrew in his youth. Mark hated Andrew, but to his credit, Andrew had stolen his car and joy rode it into the side of a building.

 

Peter hadn't bothered to keep it a secret from Stiles, it was better that he knew. If needed, he'd shut down the lines of communication again.

 

There's silence down the other end of the phone, until Stiles sighs. "Is he a better fuck than me?"

 

The question makes Peter smile. "He's had a lot more practice."

 

"That sucks."

 

"But I've always found your deer in headlights approach to getting fucked endearing."

 

Stiles is so much an open book Peter can hear him positively preening over the phone. "I let you do whatever you want to me." His voice is breathy, and Peter suddenly wonders if Mark would mind if he ever found out he had illicit phone sex with a seventeen year old in his bed.

 

* * *

 

  
  


_ Seven Months later _

 

"It's my birthday."

 

"I know this, you've been bring it up every time you call."

 

"I know but... It's my birthday."

 

Peter sighs, he's trying to clean out the bathroom of the little chateau he's renting in the south of France. It's winter and this was a summer home, so it's not been touched since late September at best. There was a whole nest of spiders in the airing cupboard that took almost an hour to excavate. His phone is precariously balanced between between his head and shoulder as he scrapes away the grime.

 

"Happy birthday, and all that jazz. Did you get anything nice?"

 

He's probably become a friendly person. Constant new faces with best intentions and no reason to think that he is anything but amiable has reformed him some ways. Andrew would laugh, Stiles would probably just be jealous that he's talking to anyone else.

 

"Yes, the state of California gave me permission to fuck people." Stiles says coldly.

 

It makes Peter pause what he's doing, throwing the grubby sponge into the basin and wiping his hands on a rag so he can hold his phone to his head proper. "I see... And you're... Unhappy about this?"

 

There's silence down the phone. Stiles uses silence like weapons, all too aware that they ring heavier when you're talking to someone who literally does not shut up unless you make them. "....I'm not unhappy... I  _ was  _ excited... Maybe hopeful."

 

"For what?"

 

"For you. You know, to say you're coming home. So you can fuck me now no one can get arrested for it."

 

Peter knits his brows. "I didn't leave because it was illegal to fuck you Stiles."

 

"I know but-"

 

"-and you're not even 'home' you're in Montana."

 

"Well, getting to Montana from Europe has to be easier than getting to California."

 

Peter laughs despite himself, Stiles obsessive desperation has always charmed him. "True. But I'm not coming home to fuck you."

 

"It wasn't just the fucking."

 

"I know."

 

Stiles sighs loudly down the phone. "Did you get me anything for my birthday?"

 

Peter had, he just decided against sending it. It was sitting in the little flat in Glasgow he'd bought to keep his stuff as he went about the European continent. "No."

 

* * *

 

 

_ 14 Months Later _

 

"So I think Scott and I are good now."

 

"You guys finally talk it out then, man to man."

 

"We smoked weed in the preserve and then went back to his house and played video games stoned." Stiles answers him with a laugh.

 

"Ah, it doesn't work as well on werewolves."

 

"It works enough, Scott had never done it before."

 

"You're a bad influence."

 

"That's exactly what I was trying to prove." Stiles says with a happy sigh.

 

Peter has a date in an hour, he doesn't tell Stiles though. The young man had been stressing a lot with his up coming confrontation with Scott, so he wanted to give him a chance to talk about it.

 

"I'm glad it went well."

 

"I spoke about us"

 

Peter doesn't know why his heart rate suddenly races. Maybe because Stiles admitted to someone all the incredibly illegal things he's done. It would be strange to be ashamed of them though, with so many deaths under his belt. It just all feels so far away. Beacon Hills, the fallout from the fire, his brief stint as Alpha,  _ what he did to Stiles _ , coming back, the rest of what he did  _ with  _ Stiles. All of it feels like years ago when really it was barely one circumference of the sun.

 

"I see."

 

"I didn't tell him about.." Silence, not weaponised. Stiles just being unsure of what to say, worried that what he says next might stop Peter talking to him. It's been months however since Peter has needed to threaten cutting of contact. "...The first night. I mean. I did a little bit, that you attacked me, that I forgive you for it."

 

It's a strange absolution, one he never knew he required.

 

"I see... When did you do this  _ forgiving _ ?"

 

Stiles makes an unhappy noise down the phone, "If you asked me last year, I would have said the day I tried to jump you in Derek's apartment."

 

Peter laughs, "When you were reading porn in the same room as me?"

 

Stiles let's out a sigh, "I can't believe I did that. I can't believe half the stuff I did trying to get your attention."

 

"You got it."

 

"Yeah, turns out I'm pretty good at seducing people."

 

Stiles has fucked three people since Peter. Which is barely a drop in the ocean compared to the men and women Peter has devoured since leaving the states. Only one of them has been a frequent thing, Stiles told him, although it's been called off in the past month. Peter never really knew what to say about how guilty Stiles sounded, perhaps it meant he was supposed to feel something akin to shame about his own exploits. Letting Stiles know about them. He doesn't, feel shame that is, it's better this way.

 

"In your own way."

 

"But yeah... I think I decided to forgive you about four months ago."

 

Peter tries to cast his mind back to where he was then. June, him and some friends took a boat out to some tiny Spanish Island. He'd dropped his phone in the ocean, and had to write Stiles a postcard apologising for his lack of contact-ability... And had followed it up with a few more postcards after. It would have been the first time Peter has ever contacted him first, he muses.

 

"Did you like them?" He says after a moment's silence, they had never spoken about it.

 

"Yes. I have them up on my wall back in Helena. Next to a photo of my dad and a Batman poster Scott bought me."

 

The image that comes to mind makes Peter smile, he needs to hurry up though. His cab will be here soon to pick him up for the theatre. "You should send me a picture."

 

"On my phone?"

 

"No, something material."

 

"I'd need an address for you for that."

 

"Ah, good point. Then I guess digital will have to do."

 

* * *

 

 

_ 16 Months later _

 

Peter gives in and sends Stiles a package. He's just bought a place in Belgium, an open plan apartment with lots of natural light. He doesn't know how permanent the move is, but he has friends here. The girl who works downstairs in the cafe is friendly, eager to come upstairs after work for a fuck, a shower and a hot meal. It's as serious as he's feeling for now. One night she brings a friend along and the three of them learn how much pressure Peter's antique desk can take. The first few weeks on Belgium have already proved promising.

 

The package contains a Polaroid camera, two boxes of film, and a picture (that Peter took with his own camera) of the view from Peter's window. He writes his address on the bottom of it.

 

Two weeks later he receives an envelope he has to sign for at the door. When he slips it open a photo of Stiles with his dick out falls onto the floor. It makes him laugh. He'd been concerned that giving Stiles his address would mean the young man might just turn up at his door. If he'd given it any time early in their separation Stiles probably would have, but he's one year into his Spark training now, it's unlikely he'd throw caution to the wind. That or maybe he's finally gotten over his stalker habit.

 

Peter picks up the photo and analyses it. It's definitely Stiles even though most of his face is missing, a particularly memorable mole pattern down the man's jaw gives it away. He looks older though, a stomach although still slight now delineated with muscle lines. More dark hair crowding his prick, some of it dusting down his thighs.

 

Peter realises that he's been holding the image of a boy in his mind all this time, but in fact Stiles has clearly aged. It's something to think about.

 

The second photo is Stiles' pokey little room in Montana. A desk and a single bed are visible, with a lot of light overwhelming the photo to show a window. Peter's postcards are easy to see, right next to where Stiles must place his head. At the bottom of the Polaroid, Stiles has written:  **Wish You Were Here.**

 

* * *

  
  


 

_ Just Under Two Years Later _

 

"How am I supposed to get a degree when I've spent that last two years focusing on made up magic."

 

Peter sighs, his journey is a shitty one and he's pretty sure the guy in front of him is trying to eavesdrop on his conversation. "It's not made up."

 

"Sure, but to the rest of the world it will be. What am I going to study, English Lit?"

 

"You completed your high school studies online last year, you can't have forgotten everything."

 

"Yeah I know, but all that just feels so... Far away, you know?"

 

"I know."

 

"I just don't know if I want to go to College anymore. Maybe one day, but I think I'm ready to take some time out first."

 

"That makes sense. You could travel."

 

It's been two years and Peter can still read Stiles' nervous excitement through the phone. "I  _ could  _ travel... I could visit Europe."

 

"I know a few places that rent. There's a cute villa in Greece going."

 

Stiles is smiling, he can hear it down the phone, "Will you be there?"

 

"Sorry, I moved out a few months ago."

 

Stiles snorts, this isn't a new conversation for them. Stiles has been threatening to come visit him since he finally started releasing his addresses. "And where did you buy next, oh travelled one?"

 

"I invested in two flats in Copenhagen. They're pretty pokey, so I'm going to knock them through and make one big space."

 

"Sounds nice, although noisy to live with. Is that the builders I can hear now?"

 

"No. I'm not in Copenhagen."

 

"Oh, where are you then? You need to tell me these things before I send some granny a picture of my dick and get sued."

 

Peter lets out a giant burst of laughter. "That would be a shame. Especially because you keep your face in them now."

 

"I thought you liked that."

 

"I do. So would interpol."

 

Stiles laughs back at him, it's a deeper laugh than what it used to be. Although he doesn't remember Stiles laughing very much when they both lived in Beacon Hills. It reminds him of Andrew, it’s the first time he’s thought of the man in months. 

 

"Okay, so where are you staying now? No where with strict pornography laws I hope."

 

"I think America has pretty liberal pornography laws."

 

There's a silence. It's not weaponised. "What did you just say?"

 

"Stiles, I'm in America."

 

"Where?"

 

"I just left Oregon." It was only a fly by visit to visit Sandra, to drop off presents for a one year old. She'd chucked him out the house after some dinner and a nap, telling him to hurry up and see his boy toy. It was crass, he loved her for it.

 

"Peter, please don't lie to me. Are you coming here?"

 

"I'm three hours out." He let's his eyes glance at his watch, it's 9pm, "I'll be there by midnight."

 

"Peter. It's my birthday at midnight."

 

"I know."

 

Peter can hear Stiles hyperventilate. It doesn't sound dissimilar to when he listens to Stiles rub one out while on the phone. Slightly less frantic maybe. "I haven't tidied my room."

 

"I really don't care, I'm planning on renting a place."

 

"For how long?"

 

"How long do you have left until your exams?"

 

"Peter! Fuck, are you serious? Am I going to see you?"

 

"I'm serious, I'm on a greyhound. I wanted it to be a surprise."

 

"Why? I mean yes. Please, I.... I've thought about this so many times. But why now? Were you waiting for me to grow up or something?"

 

"Stiles you're nineteen, I would hardly call you a grown up."

 

"Then?"

 

"I was getting my shit together, and then I was just waiting until it felt like you had your shit together."

 

"What, like I wasn't so much a teenage cliche anymore... Pining after you."

 

"You're still a teenager, and you still pine."

 

"I miss you. I've thought about you every day since you've gone. Since before you were gone."

 

"Well, maybe still a few cliches."

 

"Peter... Why did this take so long?"

 

Peter shrugs even though Stiles can't see it through the phone. He's seriously starting to resent the eavesdropper. He looks out the window to distract himself. "I was afraid about getting so close to fire again."

 

"Is that me? The fire?"

 

"That's you."

 

"But you're not afraid now?"

 

"Oh I am. I'm just ready to face it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> Peter has the inability to seperate violence from sex, same goes for Stiles. Flash back to assault, erection lost. The sex is as dub-con-y as usual.  
> \----------------
> 
> And that's that folks! To those of you who have be along for the whole ride: omfg you troopers.  
> To anyone finding this fic for the first time: as you see I decided to just throw out the 5+1 idea around the time of the first interlude.
> 
> Hopefully between all the dodgy writing & spelling there was something of worth.  
> Thanks again! See you in the next fic (;
> 
> (And if you're wondering, yes I did almost write the final scene of them seeing each other, but this chapter was already So Long and it had to stop somewhere).


End file.
